


Etch the Bone and Mark the Heart

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Baseball, Broken Bones, Bullying, Consensual Underage Sex, Headaches, Hickeys, Hospitals, M/M, Mood Swings, Seizures, Sports, Surgery, Tumor, lip ring, memory problems, migraines, sex without lube, speech problems, teeth fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-21 00:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 59,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: High school au. Seventeen years old. Tom is a loner with a lip ring. Chris is a baseball player with headaches. After almost getting into a car accident together, Tom officially meets his long-time crush, whose broody mood swings and trouble with migraines might have a more sinister reason behind them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Chris](http://half-ancient.tumblr.com/post/146852237353/mancandykings-id-like-to-think-im-a-normal). [Tom](http://half-ancient.tumblr.com/post/146314027478/thehumming6ird-adorkable-blushing-baby-hiddles).
> 
> Thank you to my beautiful and brilliant friend duskyhuedladysatan for editing at a moment's notice and encouraging me through all my doubts. 
> 
> [This](http://half-ancient.tumblr.com/post/146715147388) is what I had in mind for Tom's lip ring. Very simple but hot. Chris agrees. 
> 
> Be proud of your pain, for you are stronger than those with none. ~Lois Lowry  
> But the heart has its own memory and I've forgotten nothing. ~Albert Camus, The Fall

Tom -

 

He had a crush. And it was bad.   


It wasn't like that time he sort of liked Leon from Algebra. It was more that he always enjoyed the way Leon bit into the barrel of his mechanical pencil, liked the sharp curve of his cuspid. He'd sat close enough to him to notice, and it made him nervous, dreaming of teeth, trying to imagine what a bite might feel like by pinching his own lip. It wasn't the same, and he'd resigned himself to staring at Leon's pretty incisors while liking almost nothing else of the boy. Certainly not the way he flirted shamelessly with Amber, soccer player extraordinaire, or the stupid way his neck flushed red whenever she responded to anything he said.

Grazing the tip of his tongue against the cold sliver of metal in his mouth, Tom leaned against the east doors of the school and waited another minute to make sure the coast was completely clear. He remembered what it had felt like getting the ring put on his lower lip, the thin, silver hoop. The piercing needle had stung, the little pain of the ring as the guy with the tatted neck dragged it through his flesh and popped it out the other side, the clip of sealing the circle. His moan was so, so quiet, lashes fluttered low under the fluorescent light of the tattoo parlor. But that had been over a year ago and he still played with the piercing, flicking it with his tongue in the private pocket of his tucked lip, where none could see.

Flicked at it and thought of Chris’s teeth.

Like him, Chris Hemsworth was seventeen and a junior. But that was the end of their similarities, apart from their obvious matching chromosomes. Where Tom hid in plain sight, Chris attracted people like gnats to a slice of fruit, congenial and sunbathed. A member of the varsity baseball team, his size and strength far exceeded Tom’s own, but his teeth had been the first of Chris he’d seen. Recently seventeen and nursing a swollen lip piercing, Tom had sat at the park with a mushy Popsicle held to his mouth, still wrapped in crinkled plastic, when he had heard voices behind him. Sitting still on the bench he flitted his eyes up once, quickly, as the group of boys passed, and caught sight of a perfect row of ivory teeth, the smile lovely and wide. Gaze shifting up the boy’s face, he saw him all at once and in spurts of movement, a long-lashed blink, wide shoulders, long hair, big hands gripping a wooden bat. They were heading to the rough sketch of a baseball diamond, tufts of overgrown grass and patches of hard dirt. He could already imagine their sweaty temples and squinted eyes, the grunts of balls caught, the crack of splitting wood.

He hadn’t stuck around to watch.

But knowing of Chris now, studying him all these months, it was easy to forget about Leon and his pointed cuspids. He wished he could see Chris up close, slide his thumb under the full upper lip and test the give of his teeth. They would be strong, he thought. Biting teeth. But it was harder than it seemed. With only P.E. together and no shared friends, he relied on the times he could spy Chris in the hallways or the locker room – but would _never_ stare too long because erections at school were not cool. While Chris lunged and raced his way through every physical activity, Tom slinked by with little effort and the art of camouflage. Easily, everything hurt and he felt like dying after every class, but he would soak in the sight of that pretty boy and let such knowledge sustain him.

Chris was strong and tall and annoyingly happy, and he obviously flossed. Thank the heavens.

A strike of lightning drew his eye, thunder rumbling three beats later. The monsoons wouldn’t arrive until late July, but the sky that April afternoon was ringed with dark clouds, fat and rolling, bright sunlight shining down only accentuating the looming threat. It made the mountains appear liquid, fuzzy under the gathering storm, peppered with glitter specks of sun. He blinked to clear his dry eyes, and scanned the parking lot one more time for Jared and Mike, class bullies who liked to focus their particular attentions on him. He still bore bruises on the back of his neck from when they tried to hold him down over a toilet the other day before being interrupted by the janitor. He hadn’t seen them since before morning bell, and made himself scarce in the music room during lunch, hiding in the instrument closet and drawing with sticks of charcoal from the bulky perch of a cello case. He hoped his luck would hold out and he could breeze into his weekend relatively unscathed.

Seeing no one, he hurried out the doors and toward his car. The only other vehicle was a green Honda Civic parked by the baseball diamond, half obscuring a boy coming up from the dugout with a bag slung over one shoulder. He squinted through the glare, but there was no telling who it was from here. He picked up his pace when the gate by the diamond slammed and the person began turning toward him. Ignoring him, Tom unlocked his car and dumped his bag into the back seat. Brushing aside an old soda can with his feet, he turned the engine and rubbed his blurry eyes. He hadn’t slept well again last night, and his fatigue was grating on him. At least it was Friday.

He plugged in the auxiliary cord to his phone and put a playlist on shuffle before bracing his arm on the passenger seat and glancing out the back window. Seeing nothing, he shifted to reverse and eased off the break, backing out slowly. The baseball diamond was shimmery with heat, but the other car was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, he craned his neck even further, wondering where it’d gone, but the pavement swam and a bead of sweat flipped past his lashes. Blinking away the sting, he dropped the gear into drive and brushed a hand over his brow, beginning to turn toward the exit.

The sharp sound of squealing tires, that awful screech of spinning rubber, assaulted his senses before a flash of green came to a sudden stop just before his front bumper.

Gasping one quick word – _shit_ – he slammed on the brakes, seat belt cutting into his shoulder as he was thrust forward. Collapsing back, he sat there, stunned, temples pounding with adrenaline. Moving robotically, he put the car in park and stared out at the other car, from which there came no movement. And then the anger rushed in. Unbuckling himself, he whipped the belt to the side so hard it cracked against the window, and pushed out into the blinding heat. When he saw that the two vehicles had been only inches from colliding, he cursed again and searched for the driver. The silhouette of the person was hard to make out.

Impatient, Tom slapped the hood once. “Hey!” The door opened just then and his voice died away when he recognized Chris rise out of the car. Unhelpfully, his mind flashed to P.E. that day and the long line of flexing muscle in Chris’s back, mouth drying at the memory. He had edged against the corner row of lockers and escaped to the bathroom stalls, lungs aching. “The hell, man. You nearly hit me,” he finished lamely, sure his ears were pink.

Chris didn’t immediately answer. In the blazing heat, against the backdrop of black thunderclouds, he saw Chris’s eyes shift once to his lip piercing, lingering there before he shook his head and looked up at the sky, eyes squeezed shut. But Tom narrowed his own, biting back a question of worry. Chris looked a little pale, especially around the mouth, noticeable enough on his tanned skin. He looked ill, and it caught Tom off guard. He lowered his gaze, heat – or something else – fanning his cheeks with pink. This was more sun than he was used to getting. But when he looked once more, Chris’s were lazy and bruised, sleepy almost, blinking slow and pretty like a drowsy cow. With any other person, Tom might wonder if something was the matter with him, like mentally, but he’d studied this boy for so long he knew him to be sharp as a whip and an extraordinary athlete. This heavy apathy seemed off, unnatural for him.

“Sorry about that,” was all Chris ended up saying, his voice a rasp. Eyes dropping, he was already leaning back into his car, dismissive. 

Finding his words again, Tom scoffed and gestured with his arms at the empty parking lot. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? You almost hit me!” he said, with more force.

Pausing, Chris eyed him again. Not in a proper baseball uniform, he wore green athletic shorts and a loose white T-shirt, stained with dirt and sweat. He looked, apart from tired and irritated, completely gorgeous. Sighing, he licked his lips quickly and closed the door, coming toward him. Tom looked at him properly for the first time, snagging his gaze away from those teeth. He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet and firmly built, skin tanned from all his hours on the field. His blond hair was silky and straight, brushed back from his forehead, swept down under his ears. Tom’s own was not as bright but bouncy with riotous curls. He stopped his hand from wandering up and patting it down.

Chris walked over to where their vehicles had nearly crashed. “No collision, so no problem. I said I was sorry. Let’s just forget about it.”

“The problem,” Tom said quietly, trying not to seethe, “is that you scared the shit out of me.” Eyes on him again, Chris gave the barest hint of a smile, and Tom took an unconscious step backward. He swallowed, and tried for incredulous. “You careening around the corner is not okay. You should be more careful.” He looked from their cars to his face again, and hated that he could feel himself blushing.

Chris stood there, saying nothing, but his smile was fading. The closer Tom looked, the sleepier Chris appeared, eyes droopy and ashen beneath his lashes. “It’s whatever, man,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face in a motion Tom recognized as one of his own whenever he was exhausted. “I gotta go.” He brushed past him, and Tom, helpless, could only watch him depart. The entire exchange felt detached and unreal, and he grasped at a reason, any reason, to break through to this distant version of the boy he’d enjoyed watching for almost a year.

“Will you at least watch out next time you come speeding through a parking lot?”

And there, finally, he was gifted with a glimpse of Chris as he knew him to be, a half-smirk, peek of teeth gleaming.

“Fine, and I’ll also make sure you’re not around to almost hit.” With that, he slid into his seat and closed the door. Tom turned his back and drew in a deep breath, a little befuddled by everything. He wondered if Chris was a naturally outrageous flirt under all that fatigued brooding, and what a shame it was that he didn’t like boys. At least, Tom had never seen him affectionate with a boy. Or a girl for that matter, he thought, walking back to his car. In the year since Chris had transferred to their district, he’d never been in a public relationship. Odd, considering how good-looking he was. Maybe his personality was shit, but Tom doubted that. The short minutes he’d spent with him today hinted at something resembling playful, albeit very tired. And they were all tired, weren’t they? All ready for it to be over.

The crunch of the dusted asphalt under his shoes magnified the sudden silence around him, and he realized that Chris had never started his car. Hanging back, he took a cautious step sideways, peering across the short distance. “Hey.”

The car remained there, quiet, simmering, the sunlight glaring over the windshield and obscuring the interior. When no response came, Tom quickened his step and looked through the window. There Chris sat, hunched over his steering wheel, the fingers of one hand cupped over his eyes. At first, Tom thought he was crying, but he neither shook nor made a sound, just leaned forward and breathed. Hesitating a moment, he rapped his knuckles on the burning window.

Chris jerked at the sound, squinted eyes peering up at him. He seemed confused, brows bunched, hand spread like _what?_

“Are you okay?” Tom whispered, his reflection bending with the bright blue of the sky, camouflaging Chris’s face, nearly disappearing him. But those cow lashes sank low again and Tom imagined that he might have moaned, sagging back into the seat. Moving fast, Tom yanked the door open and leaned in, touching his hand to a warm shoulder, the muscles tense and visibly shaking. Chris was panting shallowly, perspiration dotting his forehead and upper lip, gaze distant and unfocused.

Thoroughly spooked now, Tom swallowed loudly and shifted in his crouch. “What’s wrong? You look like shit.” Had he fainted? Was he about to?

A tense moment passed where Tom’s heart pounded in rising panic and Chris’s chest stuttered through gasps so thin to barely pass as breathing. Keeping a hand on his shoulder made Tom feel better, more secure in the knowledge that Chris wasn’t about evaporate into mist, that he was solid and okay. He had to be okay. Looking around only confirmed how alone they were. Fingers in his hair, Tom worried at his lip ring and wondered what to do. “Think, think, think,” he gasped, hoping Chris wasn’t about to have some kind of seizure. He should get his phone, call for help –.

But then Chris made a sound, a small moan, and Tom jumped back quickly before leaning in eagerly. Blinking slowly, Chris rolled his head toward him, gaze clearing only slightly. The sunlight seemed to pain him, eyes hooded heavily but betraying a deep sense of understanding. “Tom?”

Tom froze, caught completely unawares by the fact that Chris knew his name. But he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Shit, you scared me.”

There was no fear in Chris’s face, which frankly, astonished Tom, whose heart was trying to claw out of his chest. If he were in Chris’s shoes, he’d be begging for an ambulance. There was only exhaustion there, weary and thick, like he felt it to his bones. Sympathy bloomed in him and the urge to embrace Chris, to offer comfort, rose in a fierce wave.

Something shuttered over Chris’s eyes, and he dropped his chin, shrugging. “I’m sorry. This happens…” He broke off, voice fading. “I don’t feel well.”

Tom paused. Was this something that had happened to him a lot? But he couldn’t remember ever having seen Chris look so depleted before. Not even during his games, but Tom never stuck around long enough for them to finish, only just a bit at the beginning when Chris, burdened with gear – grilled face mask and helmet, padded chest protector, long leg guards – would stride out to the plate and squat down behind it, those legs folding under him as he played catch with the pitcher on the mound. But this worn out? This low? Never. Always smiling and brimming with a kind of open happiness Tom could never imagine himself displaying in public.

And the way Chris stared at him now, clouded, it was like he wasn’t really there.

“Are you...um, are you on something? Maybe?”

A flutter of consciousness behind his eyes, and then a spark of anger. “Think I’m on drugs?”

Tom shrugged, not exactly wanting to point out the slight slur to his words. It was a possibility, one he hadn’t anticipated but he wasn’t above suspecting people of things.

“Well I’m not,” Chris bit out, his anger quelled only vaguely by his breathlessness, the shallow hitch in his chest as another twang of pain radiated through his skull, and he grimaced again.

“Well, sorry. I actually wouldn’t know, despite some rumors to the contrary, I’m sure.”

Something hard came over Chris’s face, and Tom had the sudden impression that he was not normally this unhinged. Lips peeled back, his teeth on full, lovely display – but the deranged stupor in his eyes seemed foreign on his features, as did the fury. He chuckled a little cruelly. “Yeah, somehow I doubt that. The little weirdo would know, wouldn’t he?”

Tom went still, chest heaving gently. His voice was quiet. “Wow. Was that an insult?”

A long, tense moment passed. Blinking, Chris’s vision noticeably cleared and he tore his gaze toward the passenger window.

“Sorry,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know why I did.”

Swallowing down a biting retort, Tom nodded carefully. “True though, isn’t it. It’s what everyone calls me.”

“No,” Chris said, turning back around. “I mean, yeah, I have heard that about you. People calling you that, but um. I – I would never. I’m not – I’m always…unwell…just after.” He did look worse than before his incident, paler, less balanced. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s this heat,” Tom said, an edge of amiability coming over him, wishing to reconcile. It seemed the most logical explanation. “It’s brutal now.”

Chris said nothing, just blinked at him. It was eerie.

Fishing for something, anything, Tom said, “You need some water? I have none on me but I can run up to the vending machine and grab you some.”

“Okay,” Chris whispered after a moment. Content to oblige, Tom rose from his crouch, feeling in his pockets for some change. The sunlight spilled into the interior of the car and Chris shied from it, groaning again. The car was positioned directly in the sunlight’s path, whereas his own was angled mostly in the shadow.

“Let’s move you to my car. You can’t drive like this anyway. Sit in the passenger seat while I go get you some water, and I can give you a ride home.”

Chris didn’t immediately object, but he didn’t make a move to comply either. Sitting quite still, he licked at his bottom lip and mumbled something away from Tom. Not hearing him, Tom ducked his head closer. “What?”

The strength of his voice didn’t exactly improve, even when repeating himself. “I don’t think I can walk very well right now. My head is killing me and I might blow chunks all over you.”

“What if you have the flu or something?”

Chris blushed red and looked away. Gritted teeth. “Just a headache.”

Sweating bullets himself, Tom glanced toward the far edge of the parking lot, at the chain link fence and the swaths of open desert that lay beyond it. He sighed. “I can help you. The car’s only just right there. Come on.” He held his hand out and waited.

The bruises under his eyes seemed darker than before, but it probably looked worse by Tom’s growing worry. All Chris needed was an ice pack, some cold water, and lots of sleep. Still, he’d feel better if he saw Chris home himself. Looking resigned, Chris finally nodded and shifted in his seat. Even the simple act of turning his legs to plant both feet on the boiling asphalt seemed a gargantuan effort, his face paling of all color.

“All right,” Tom whispered, offering both hands. “Come here, it’s okay.” Their fingers grazed – tips and calloused ridge of palms, skimming the underside of his wrists – and then Chris took solid hold. The contact was hot and tight and moist all at once, drying his tongue and making his eyes cross slightly. He wasn’t ready for the rough rasp of Chris’s hardened hands, the heat of them, how very big they were, and from a private corner in his heart he offered up quiet thanks for the game of baseball. With a muttered count of three, they pulled at the same time and then Chris was standing, shuffling back until his spine hit against the car. Eyes squinted shut, mouth in a wide grimace, he was in obvious pain, both hands flying to cover his face from the blinding sun. From between his wrists Tom saw a peek of teeth, straight and a little dented inward, how _enchanting_. The cuspids were curiously not sharp, but so lovely he almost licked his own lips, itching to touch, just once.

“Goddamn it,” Chris moaned, but it was the whimper that followed that snapped Tom into focus, and he moved forward before he properly considered if his action might seem untoward to Chris. Sliding his hands around the side of Chris’s shoulders, he guided him forward just slightly, cautiously, as if expecting to be rebuffed, shoved away, but surprisingly, Chris eased against him, giving in, shaking like a leaf. Another small whimper, and then, “It hurts.”

“I know,” Tom said softly, even though he didn’t, he had no idea what was wrong, but tucking his chin against the hot curve of Chris’s neck, the extra inches in height made a big difference as they swayed and he struggled to hold their combined body weights. The more Chris shuddered, the heavier he became and Tom had the sudden suspicion that they might not make it.

Tightening his arms around him, he gasped a quiet instruction to move and together they took halted side steps toward the other car. Even though he couldn’t see for himself, he knew that Chris’s eyes were still squeezed tight, desperate for dark and quiet, and he couldn’t quite match the distressed boy in his arms to the boy he’d always admired from afar. This wasn’t how he imagined it would happen, holding Chris now, in those private moments alone in his room when his pillow would become a body and his mind provided the rest. He didn’t think Chris would be near catatonic with pain and fatigue. Was it more than a headache? Had he hurt himself practicing?

The tip of Chris’s shoe caught in a crack on the pavement and they nearly crashed to the ground, but Tom grunted and hauled him up closer, both gasping and off balance. Sweat gathered at the corners of his eyes and Chris’s hair stuck to his cheek in long strands. At the small of his back, a big hand wrapped into the hem of his shirt and tugged hard.

He nearly catapulted into the sky.

He’d always known of Chris’s strength, but experiencing it firsthand was almost religious, his lashes drifting shut just as they had the moment the needle had pierced his lip and in slid the silver ring. Pulling back, he searched Chris’s face to make sure he wouldn’t pass out and, still sagging, Chris stood panting with his cheek resting on Tom’s shoulder, blinking blearily at him. The angle was awkward, but there were those spiral-blue irises, the lashes longer and thicker than he thought, the slash of dark full brows, lips a little chapped from the sun. He looked so pained, it hurt Tom to see him that way. The tender skin near his eyes and around his lips was tinted lavender, and the twist of veins in his neck strained and pulsed with tiny spasms of energy. Tom blinked to gather his focus and nodded, if only for himself, that he would get Chris to his car if it damn near killed him.

Chris stared at his lip ring before saying, “I don’t know how much longer I can stand.”

Tom almost laughed, but it came out more of a wheeze. This was standing? More like graceful falling. “Okay. Almost there.”

They made it after half a dozen more stumbled steps, Chris’s fist at his waist doing enough to distract him as the fear of twisting an ankle was, but setting him down in the passenger seat came as a regretful relief. Back muscles knotted, he bent forward with both hands on his knees and heaved in several deep breaths, chest as tight as it had been when their cars had nearly collided ten minutes before. Chris was one heavy guy.

“I’ll be back in five,” he managed, swallowing around his own dry mouth. “The vending machines are by the gym around the other side of school.”

Chris was curled away from him and appeared to have fallen asleep.

“Are you sure you don’t need, like, an ambulance?”

He heard the faintest whisper. “Don’t think so. These usually last a short while. I just need to lie down. It’s so damn…bright out here.”

He fell quiet again and Tom left him as he was in the shadowed cab of his car.

The school was eerie when deserted, the halls silent, the computers powered down, the doors _locked_. After circling around to the gym, he tried the first set of double doors but they didn’t budge. Neither did any of the rest. Cursing, he banged on the window, peering inside for a sign of any movement but saw none. He doubled back to the front of the school and pushed through the outer gate. The storm was rumbling closer, lightning strikes crisscrossing the sky, but the sun still shone strongly over him, and he cupped his palms over the glass to the auditorium.

To his right, one of the doors opened and Steph, the custodian, came out rolling a garbage can behind him.

“Oh, thank you!” Tom said, slipping into the gym before Steph could react.

“Hey, kid, you can’t go in there!”

“I just need some water. I’ll only be a second!”

The door slammed shut and he was running through the empty auditorium toward the hallway linking the gym to the locker rooms. The silence was punctuated by the squeak of his sneakers, his breaths, the hum of the vending machines glowing in the half-darkened alcove. He stuck a hand in his pocket and fished for change, collecting the necessary quarters and dimes for a bottle of water. He punched the button and waited as the inner gut of the machine thumped and vibrated, depositing a rolling bottle in the bottom tray. Snatching it up, he held it tightly and exited the way he came, the janitor shaking his head as he zoomed past.

The sun was edging toward the western horizon, showering the parking lot in slanted light. The two cars were there still, askew in the road, and it wasn’t until he saw Chris slouched in his passenger seat did he realize he was half afraid he’d have left. Slowing down the last few feet, he crouched by the door and touched Chris’s arm slightly. Chris’s eyes fluttered open and he turned his head. His face was a little clearer, not nearly so pinched with pain, but he was still pale when he sat up and accepted the water bottle. He uncapped it and chugged it down in a handful of deep swallows, his bobbing throat drawing Tom’s eyes.

Wiping his mouth, Chris nodded and whispered his thanks.

“You’re probably dehydrated. Headaches are bad like that.”

Unconvinced, Chris only shrugged.

The glare coming in through the car windows was intense, and Tom squinted up at him. “Is it feeling better?”

Another shrug. “A bit.”

The silence stretched on until Tom rose to his feet. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You were about to faint just now.”

That same hardness from earlier passed over Chris’s face – clearly frustrated. He scowled. “I did not just almost faint.”

_Yeah, okay buddy_. But he remained quiet, recognizing embarrassment when he saw it. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better. Need help back to your –.”

“ _No_.”

Tom stood aside as Chris pushed himself to his feet and returned to his car, one hand on the roof. “Thanks,” he said a little gruffly, not exactly meeting Tom’s eyes. And then he was sliding in with a barely muted groan. Feeling dismissed, Tom closed the passenger door and went around to the other side, glancing back at Chris once more before getting in behind the wheel and starting his car. In his rearview mirror, he saw Chris buckle in and push back his hair, harried, tired. He rubbed at his brow and then in one swift blink, cast his gaze across the distance to meet Tom’s eyes in the mirror. The contact was so sudden, so electric, that Tom gasped and jumped in his seat, turning the ignition so quickly the engine sputtered for a moment before settling in a quiet hum.

He reversed a few feet and then righted the steering wheel and drove toward the exit, noting that Chris was slowly following in his wake, turning right at the stop sign just as Tom had, continuing on behind him at the intersection, stopping at the red light. His face was inscrutable in the mirror, silver shades obscuring any hint as to how he was feeling. Tom kept expecting him to turn down any number of roads they passed, but Chris continued to tail him all the way to the entrance of his neighborhood.

Confused, he pulled over on a deserted stretch and lowered his window. With his own look of question, Chris glided up next to him.

“What are you doing?” Tom said.

Shrugging, Chris said, “Going home. You live around here?”

Surprised, Tom stared for a long moment. Did they really live in the same neighborhood? How had he not known this? “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I live on Fauna.”

And for the first time since they’d officially met, Chris’s smile grew wide. “I’m on Flora.”

Dumbfounded, Tom couldn’t reply, already wondering which house was his. Flicking his fingers up, Chris tossed him a quick wave and drove off. He watched as the green Honda turned the corner and disappeared.

Back at his own house, he stopped by the kitchen and greeted his dad, an investment banker who always had his nose in a newspaper.

“Hey, kid,” he said, and rubbed Tom’s head as he passed him on his way to the fridge. “School okay?”

“Eh. For the most part.” Tom had always been fairly honest with his father, ever since his mother walked out after his third birthday. There wasn’t anything amiss between them; his father always told him when he might be bringing a lady friend home and that it would be okay if Tom stayed in his room or kept out of the house, in case it made him uncomfortable; and Tom kept his father in the loop about liking boys and wanting his lip ring and possible getting another piercing in the future.

“Just, give me some warning, okay?” his father had said over a year ago, downing his coffee before work. “Like a month in advance. I gotta get used to the idea of more metal on your face.”

“What makes you think it would be on my face?” Tom said with a grin, and his father had turned scarlet, swiping a hand over his brow.

“You’re a cute kid, Tom,” he’d said, sounding bereaved. “Keep it classy.”

But something stopped him from telling his father about Chris, about how worried he’d suddenly become. It wasn’t until he was standing before the open fridge that he realized how scared he’d been, of Chris’s pale face and trembling hands, of the pain that had crashed over his eyes, the soft whimper at the smallest glare of sunlight. What would he have done had things turned worse? But he didn’t follow that thread, snipping it right at the root. It seemed a very intimate and private exchange, something he knew Chris wouldn’t want him sharing. In fact, Tom had the suspicion not many knew about these crippling headaches he suffered, and that he certainly wouldn’t be the first to betray this knowledge, however unwillingly given.

“When’s your last day?”

Swallowing back some orange juice, Tom shrugged. “May something or other.”

“Grades okay?”

He almost scoffed. “Yes, dad. I’m well ahead of everybody.”

His father turned to him and flicked his lip ring gently. “Good. I’m back to the office now, I’ll probably be home late.”

“Is that code for ‘I’m seeing Emilia’?” She was the woman who worked at the office building next to the bank. She was tall with black hair and killer calf muscles, and always had on the best red lipstick. Plus she laughed really sweetly, kind of throaty, but was also really smart and could probably cut a man’s sentence off with a single look. Not that he’d spied on them that one time his father had her over for dinner or anything. It was the winged eyeliner that made her all the fiercer, maybe too fierce for his father.

Chuckling, his father nodded and put his coffee cup in the sink. “I don’t know, actually. She’s been kind of…frosty with me. What does that mean?”

“Heck if I know.” He couldn’t imagine what being on the receiving end of Emilia’s frost would feel like. Poor dad.

“Come on. Boys get frosty sometimes, too.”

A flash of the irritation in Chris’s eyes when Tom offered to help him back to his car popped into his mind, and he nodded, whispering, “Yeah.”

“What is it? Some guy being horrible to you? Because I can tank his parents’ finances. Gimme his social.”

It made Tom smile. “No, but thanks. I don’t know. It’s more like things are way new and I hardly know him but he’s really cute and out of my league.”

His father sighed and picked up his briefcase. “Yeah. Emilia is too, I guess.” They met each other’s eyes, both probably having thought that at the same time. Tom laughed and then his father did, and then he got one more hair ruffle before he promised Chinese for dinner the next night. “Don’t eat all the pizza pockets at once!” he called before heading out the door.

Indeed, he put a handful of pizza pockets on a plate and nuked them in microwave, blowing on them carefully as he climbed the stairs balancing the food and a can of soda. Sunlight streamed in through his windows, the curtains open and a little rumpled. He always liked to throw them wide in the mornings, the cool air helping to wake him up. Only now, he had full view of the house behind his own, a peek of a green bumper parked on the curb of the street in front. It was surreal to think that Chris might have been living behind him all this time, but he’d never seen him.

Setting the plate on his desk and dropping his backpack to the floor, he went to the window and peered out. There wasn’t much he could see from his vantage point, just the backs of a row of houses, some of the yards with pools or trampolines, kids’ toys or immaculate garden designs. He’d seen the house from the front before, remembering it from when he rode the paper route for a cousin a few months back. The front walk was lined with pretty flowers and potted plants, the yard kept meticulously clean with white and beige rocks, a juvenile mesquite tree offering spotty shade on a miniature bridge with a water wheel, dry and creaking. It was cute. What he could see of the backyard was only canopies of thick green leaves, blocking the view inside save for a corner where it looked like water gathered for a pool or some kind of fountain. Someone in that household was definitely into plants.

Their houses were mirror images of each other, so he assumed the windows facing his belonged to Chris’s bedroom, with the master bedroom on the opposite side facing the street. Why did he never open his window? Or his blinds? Why was he never outside? Maybe he had an allergy, but dismissed that right away, knowing Chris spent plenty of time outside playing varsity baseball, his tanned skin proof that the sun wasn’t the problem. He was dying to know more, but he was the sort of quiet type that was part shy part afraid of being a bother to anyone, his nature preventing him from doing anything that felt obtrusive to others. So he would wait, wondering if Chris might be okay with talking on Monday. For now, he had pizza pockets to eat and a paper to write before Sunday.

But his dream that night unsettled him. He was in a car and Chris was sitting beside him, his presence huge, like a snoozing mountain cat, so much power and size, coiled for a strike if threatened. I won’t threaten you, Tom thought in that sluggish way dreams demanded, tongue flicking at his lip ring. “I won’t say anything,” he whispered. Not that he could, with no friends. But he wouldn’t. That single moment when Chris had sat gripping the steering wheel, jaw clenched, eyes wide with something like terror, and then the weary malaise of watching Tom react to his obvious pain, Tom felt decidedly privileged and a little burdened for this knowledge. As if he had a secret claim to Chris that none of his many other friends were privy too. At least, he hoped so.

Chris’s face sagged with relief. “Thank you. No one else knows about this and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“But what is ‘this’, Chris? Has it always happened to you?”

Chris turned away, eyes tightening, already reaching for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride. See you later.” He grabbed his bag and was gone before Tom could blink.

“Chris—.”

But the door slammed shut and then Chris was jogging up the drive, keys in hand. He unlocked the front door and disappeared inside, leaving Tom to stare after him, uneasy.

He’d woken curled tightly around his pillow feeling vaguely wounded by this imaginary conversation, as if he’d let Chris down somehow. Muttering to get a grip, he rolled over and settled back into sleep.

**

_I always knew he had a lip piercing. There was a lot I knew about him from simple observation – always alone, even eating, when he decided to grace us with his presence in the cafeteria. Nose stuck in book after book. Fingers smudged with something black. Bruises on the back of his neck and the sharp angle of his elbows. Who touched him? But standing there with his mouth open in shock, eyes pinched with worry - and pity?- for me, that little silver hoop, so thin and small, winked at me in the sunlight, and my eyes caught on it like a fly to honey. And I thought to myself, I’ve just lost him._

_So why bother?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going over my draft and noticed that my chapter lengths are all over the place. I think I'm horrible at chapter separations. It's just not my jam. I'll try to post multiples at once if they are very short but it all depends on how busy I am, which has been /very/ these past couple of weeks. Thanks for your patience!

Chapter 2

Tom:

It was an understatement that he wondered all weekend how Chris was feeling. Did he wake up and immediately peer out the window to the house across the way? Yup. Did he study the unmoving curtains, willing them to open? Yeah. Did his heart speed up at the slightest flicker of light in the window opposite his, imagining Chris pulling back the sheets and lying down with a sigh? Yes. It was so pathetic and he was taking it all to his grave.

Dinner with his dad Saturday night was indeed Chinese food from his favorite take-out place downtown. Surrounded by cartons of fried rice, beef and broccoli, ginger chicken and seafood fantasy, egg rolls and egg flower soup, he and his dad had watched a marathon of a plastic surgery show, both agreeing that all of the people had looked their best before electing to go under the knife. Picking at the peas in the rice, his dad casually asked if Tom had spoken any more to his mysterious boy, and crunching on a fortune cookie, Tom had shrugged and denied such a boy’s existence. Chuckling, they went back to their show. 

He got to school earlier than usual on Monday. There was no sign of Jared or Mike, so he pushed through the double doors into the cafeteria and headed over to his favorite attendant.

“How’s my girl today?” he asked, pulling out his student ID.

Estelle was an older woman with ebony skin, curly grey hair, and horned rimmed glasses complete with a mother of pearl chain that dangled over her enormous breasts whenever she wasn’t wearing them. She loved him to pieces, and Tom couldn’t say that he didn’t feel the same. Her throne was behind cash register two, where she hung out all day except to take her smoke break just before lunch. She had pictures of her grandchildren taped to her machine and notes students from previous years had given her. The postcard he’d made her from the crushed flower petals of a blooming saguaro held the place of honor.

She put down the paperback she was reading. “Oooooh, there’s my pale primrose. How are you, honey? Did you study this weekend?”

She seemed to always be under the impression that school these days was nearly impossible to pass, and she constantly worried over his grades, even though he showed her his top marks.

“I did, love. And I wrote my essays and read two chapters ahead.”

She grinned a mouthful of perfect dentures. He had adored them at first sight. “Good, baby. Still so skinny, I see. Go on ahead and grab what you like. I’ll charge the same.” Which was always nothing, bless her. She winked one chocolate brown eye only just beginning to grow milky with age and patted his curls as he walked by. People loved doing that, and he really didn’t mind. Unless it was Jared or Mike. Their touch was much crueler.

He loaded up his backpack with strawberry pastries, cups of yogurt, several apples, a bag of carrots, two containers of orange juice and a bottle of milk. The server behind the glass gave him a plate of runny eggs and stringy bacon with cold toast, but it was the price to pay for access to the good stuff, pre-packaged. Estelle clucked her tongue when he showed her his cache of food, muttering, “Don’t know where it all go. I hope you’re not selling it on the side and not taking any for yourself.”

“You wound me,” he said, smiling, zipping up his bag. “This happens to sustain me all day, believe it or not. You know I’m not a fan of the lunch hour.” They eyed each other knowingly, both nodding. Flooded with kids from every corner of the school, the two lunch periods were always rough on Estelle and the three other cashiers. While most of the population were polite and kind, some students were rude and impatient, ridiculously entitled and arrogant. She and the other ladies suffered all sorts of indignities, not to mention the loners like him who were often easy targets for unadulterated abuse unseen or ignored. Making himself scarce was the best he could do.

“I wish I could take you with me,” he admitted quietly. She knew all about his escape to the music room closet, and the peace and quiet he found there.

But she sat up with a wave of her gloriously colored fingernails, bright and flashing with diamonds, and scoffed playfully. “Baby, don’t you worry about me. These silly children don’t scare me. Where I grew up was a rougher place, and I’m alright by it. Like raindrops off of glass, I always say. They’ll grow up too, and they’ll learn,” she promised, a wizened gleam in her eyes. “Oh, Lord help them, they’ll learn. Plus, ain’t all of them so bad.” She gave him a sweet smile and cupped his cheek, shooing him on his way. He thanked her with a wink, her little giggle making him smile. The cafeteria was nearly empty this early, and he took a seat at a table by the nearest exit. He swallowed down his meager breakfast, already looking forward to when he could peel open the first banana yogurt during math.

His morning classes flew by and he was soon tucked away in the instruments closet, wondering for the hundredth time if Chris was at school. He hadn’t seen him at all, only his other jock friends taking up their usual amount of space in the hallways. But P.E. was next, and he hoped to be able to…what? Talk to him? They had never talked at school before. Their conversation on Friday was the only time they’d spoken in an entire year, but it was enough to make him want more. To study Chris and soak in every minute detail, the furrow of brow, the soft bristles of hair on his jaw. He liked his voice. He hoped his head wasn’t hurting again.

That squinty cow, he thought, smiling down at his last pastry, with those square teeth and big hands he could still feel curling into his shirt for balance. But their abrupt – and somewhat awkward – departure from the parking lot gave Tom pause, triggered caution in him that had helped him escape sticky situations before. Not to mention the small bursts of anger Chris had displayed. Whenever Tom had headaches, he wasn’t always in the best mood, and decided not to judge on that just yet.

All he knew was that he wouldn’t seek out if he wasn’t wanted. It was something he’d learned over the years, since the time he figured out that liking boys meant others might not like you in return because of it. And liking Chris was a little dangerous. What if he was offended by Tom’s advances? What if – and it hurt Tom to think so – but what if Chris was just another in a long line of boys who felt threatened by his interest, and beat him up for it?

He couldn’t be sure, so he would have to be careful.

By the time he got to the locker room and changed into his ridiculous uniform – blue athletic shorts and a grey T-shirt with the school’s logo printed on the front – most of the others had already emptied out into the gym. He locked his things away and tugged down the collar of his stiff shirt. He hated wearing this. His legs looked scrawnier than usual, his arms long and bony and pointed. His remarkable physical deficits were so much more obvious in this uniform than even when he was naked alone in his room.

Naked.

Chris must look downright sinful naked, all long shinbones and round muscle. Was there a trail of hair from navel downward? Was the small of his back dusted with blond hair? Did he have dimples there, like Tom did? Would the nape of his neck be soft and fragrant? Did he have that ‘V’?

Something stirred in his shorts, and he went pale with panic. “No, no, no,” he whispered, turning on his heel and heading for the bathroom stalls. He couldn’t get a boner here, goddammit, what a fucking nightmare. Practically running, he skidded over the black-lined tile and reached for the first stall door. It was at that very moment that someone pushed into the locker room from the other end, tall and golden-haired.

Aiming for his locker, Chris lifted his head and their eyes met, Chris’s slowly widening, Tom’s popping with horror. He may have squeaked when he finally fell into the stall, his erection half-flagging from all the fear, but there was enough swelling to make him positively _die_.

“He didn’t see,” he mouthed, his whisper completely silent. “He didn’t see. He didn’t see. You’re okay.” Breathing hard, he leaned against the wall and gulped in air, cupping himself and cursing all existence. A hand in his hair, he tugged just hard enough to draw tears to his eyes, willing his damnable cock to _stand down_ —.

“Tom?”

He gasped, head whipping up. Fuck no. The voice was uncertain, but far enough away to be coming from the sinks maybe.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Oh! Ha. Um, yes!” he said, too loudly, too soon. He could practically hear the silence dripping with Chris’s hesitation. He swallowed and tried for normal. “Yes. I’m okay. I’m having…heartburn. I’ll be out in a sec.”

Steps slowly receded and he eased out a sigh of desperate relief. The shuffling and soft sounds of clothes being removed and put back, a locker slamming, the side door to the gym hallway opening and closing haunted him as he curled against the wall and imagined Chris only feet away changing, alone. He must think him so fucking weird, and wasn’t that right? Wasn’t that what everyone knew? Giving him funny, wary looks, laughing behind their fingers, all these kids he’d grown up with and had slowly drifted away from despite their forced proximity. His goofy hair, his lisp that had gotten – thank fucking god – better as he grew older but still was there sometimes. The snickers at his lip piercing, the bated breath year round to see what else he would do.

Guess he wasn’t as unnoticed as he would have liked.

But not Chris. Not this boy who came from somewhere far away, who didn’t have preconceived notions about who Tom was and why, he couldn’t stand it if Chris were to turn from him too. And so soon after having broken that dangerous ice.

He sighed, looking down at himself. He was presentable enough, at the moment, but his heart had gone out of it all. Changing back into his regular clothes, he grabbed his backpack and headed to the door, skipping gym for the first time in a year.

**

_He never showed, and all the confidence I managed to dredge up over the weekend just deflated at his absence. We ran and hurdled and tossed balls, but that curly head was missing, and I know it’s my fault. Why did I have to be such a dick to him? Leaving like that, knowing he was trying to find out what the hell was up with my head, as if I knew – staring at me like I’d just crushed all his charcoal pens to dust? Looking pale in the locker room, eyes wide and afraid? Nervous, definitely. He was trying to stay away. Like whatever was wrong with me might be contagious._

_I saw him at his window this morning, pulling open the shades and smiling up at the sky. That lip ring doesn’t hide the fact that he probably has the kindest heart ever._

_And I fucked it up._


	3. Chapter 3

Tom:

Inappropriate erection aside, two weeks went by uneventfully. He did his best to remain stoic during gym, but he felt he could no longer approach Chris about what had happened the day they met in the parking lot. Embarrassed about the whole locker room thing, he forced himself not to seek him out, so much so that it wasn’t until the start of the third week that he noticed Chris never actually looked at him either. They were like stars orbiting opposite ends of a universe, repelling the magnetic pull, veering clear of each other in the hallways, their will to ignore the other so strong it was like insect legs prickling his cheek, incessant. Chris’s presence was a warm flame he gravitated toward, knowing vaguely where he was in the school even when holed up in the instruments closet. Plucking at the strings of a busted violin, he faced for the first time the utter disappointment he felt in his shoddy belief that he might have been able to be friends with Chris, if not something more. It was really fucking naïve of him. Chris may have felt embarrassed by whatever made him so sick, but did Tom’s involvement make it…worse for him? That he’d seen him so vulnerable, so weak?

God, he would hate to be a nuisance to Chris, to anyone. This is why it was better keeping to yourself, letting others make mistakes you could then learn from at a distance, uninvolved. Safe. It all sounded so lonely, but he dodged enough bullying – and succumbed to too much– to know that some hurts faded with time and others didn’t.

A little angrier about it than before, he jerked his curtains closed. If Chris wanted nothing to do with him, then so be it.

**

_He wore tight black jeans today – there was a tear above the right knee that showed a peek of pale skin, fuck me – and this burgundy shirt, with a unicorn jumping through these puffy little white clouds stamped on the front. All that was missing was a goddamn rainbow. He couldn’t hide being queer even if he tried. Fuck. He was, like, extra prettier than usual, cheeks patched pink from the sun, hair curling under his ears. He worries at his lip ring when he’s somewhere deep in his head, which is often. He doesn’t know this, but I watch him all the time and it kills me that he doesn’t watch me anymore._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for bullying

Tom:

Luck always runs out, especially where bullies are concerned. And if it wasn’t because he was still a little distracted from the night before watching the edges of Chris’s drapes flicker just before the glowing light within his room went out, he might have spotted the ambush sooner. There are tricks to hiding, to remaining just at the edges of a person’s vision. It was important to stick as close to a wall as was reasonably possible, keeping your eyes shifted midway down, not entirely trained on the floor but not making any eye contact either. It made all the details just fuzzy enough to catch a shift in the air currents of someone veering toward him, a snap of a gaze turned on him, the soft whisper of a snicker from behind.

But being half preoccupied by the nocturnal habits of a stupid gargantuan blond beefcake dulled his otherwise honed senses and he missed precious seconds to cry out as an arm was thrown around his neck and he was dragged into the boys’ bathroom. Some sophomore was washing his hands at the sink when Jared and Mike hauled him in, but he left in a hurry without even drying them, eyes on the ground. _Thanks a lot, kid_.

Jared wrenched his backpack off, flung it to the corner, and then slammed him up against the cold tiled wall, the back of his head cracking loudly. The window above shone sunlight almost prettily into their blue eyes, but his vision blurred for a second, blending their faces into two amorphous shapes before zipping back into focus. The pain was sharp and throbbing. He’d have a migraine the rest of the day, goddamn them.

“Where you been, buddy?” Mike said, smiling like they were all good friends. And maybe they could have been, once upon a time, if it wasn’t for the one and only occasion Tom had gone to a teacher about milk spilled ‘accidentally’ on his favorite book back in fourth grade. He’d been paying for it ever since. Hands in his shirt, they were right up in his face. “Feeling a little scarce around here without our favorite punching bag. Where have you been hiding?”

Tom smiled through the coiling dizziness in his head. “If you miss me that much, why don’t you just take me to dinner and then hang out with me in the backseat of my car.”

A mistake, but fuck it.

Anger sharpened their eyes to slits, and then a fist was rammed into his stomach, hard and cruel. He doubled over, coughing hoarsely, the wind knocked from him. They let him fall to the floor, one hand slipping on the tiles, his other arm wrapped over his waist. Sprawled there, he felt them circling him, unable to draw air into his seizing lungs, face red from the pain. They were talking but all sound had muted to a low buzz, zeroed down to the blood pulsing in his ears and the ragged thin drag of air he finally managed to take. Tears blurred his eyes, blinking at the scuffed tip of Mike’s shoe.

And he thought, rather muddily _, please not my lip ring_.

The crash that followed registered as if from a distance. Mike’s shoes were there, and then suddenly they were not, his body hitting the floor next to Tom with a heavy thud. Jeans, a peek of wrinkled blue boxers, and then Mike was up and running, gone.

Confusion pulsed through his mind, trying to make out what just happened. The more he breathed, the more his head cleared and the pounding started in earnest, thunder in his brain. He moaned quietly, half-hearing the grunts and scraps of a scuffle, a voice whispering in fury, a voice he was surely dreaming up.

“I swear to fucking Christ, I’ll pound your face in if you touch him again.”

Somewhere behind Tom someone struggled. He would have rolled away, pushed to his elbows, limped out of there while he still could, but his legs were frozen with shock, his stomach cramping from the blow, his temples pulsing, so he lay still, wheezing, cheek cold from the tiles.

“What the hell, man. Get the fuck off me.” Jared, enraged.

Another loud rustle, a gasp, and then that voice again. “Oh, you don’t like it, huh? That’s interesting.” There was a sickening smack, flesh on flesh with points of bone, and another pained grunt before footsteps pounded past his head and out the door. Blinking, Tom groaned and shifted slightly, the pain in his stomach tightening his lungs all over again. Jared really gave his all in that punch, Jesus Christ.

“Hey,” he heard as someone squatted beside him. “You okay?”

Honestly, his throat felt on fire and there was probably a crater in his stomach, but seeing Chris there, those cow lashes aimed low, eyes squinted in concern, reaching a hand to each of his arms and hauling him up like a toy made of air, it stole his breath all over again.

He squeaked, swaying. “Um.” It was better standing on both feet than lying where giant boys could stomp on him, but he couldn’t uncurl from his stomach to save his life right now. “Thanks,” he gasped, wincing. “You didn’t have to. Happens all the time.”

Chris frowned, brows wrinkling in distaste. “Then yes, I did have to. Fuck those idiots.”

Tom shrugged and limped over to the sink. Cold water rushed over his fingers, surprised by how much they trembled. He dabbed some on his face, beads of it slipping down his cheeks like tears. His brain pounded with every heartbeat and he cursed the bright glare from the upper window.

“Are you okay?” Chris asked again, softer, appearing in the mirror right behind him. That hair, god. Like soft wheat. It was as if three weeks hadn’t gone by, that he could feel such familiarity with Chris just now, coming to stand so closely to him, asking this of him. He remembered the hot weight of him from the parking lot. But he hadn’t forgotten the disappointment, the odd way he felt spurned by Chris just after, so he met his eyes only cautiously.

“Yeah,” he said, still hoarse. A little embarrassed, he cleared his throat of the lingering thickness and nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay. They caught me by surprise. Usually I can avoid them.”

The warmth at his shoulder grew stronger and he stiffened slightly, but Chris only moved close enough to face him.

“They bully you like this all the time?” His face betrayed a deep lack of understanding, the disbelief so stark it almost made Tom laugh. What a precious lamb. He shut the water off and tore off a piece of paper towel with one hand, the other still clutched to his belly. He pressed the moist paper to his forehead, biting back a groan. Beside him, Chris’s hand started to lift, but then paused, falling limply once more.

“I know it’s hard for people of such,” Tom gestured to all of Chris, “ _stature_ to get it but yeah, this happens all the time. They’ve had it out for me since we were like ten, the halfwit morons. Just can’t get enough of me.” He leaned in close to the mirror and dabbed at his lip ring, even though he knew they hadn’t touched it. He needed to make sure. “They bulked up a little. I certainly didn’t.” He laughed. “I can’t help being so adorable. It’s whatever.”

“Whatever, my ass,” Chris said, actually growling a little. Tom stared up at him in surprise, immediately turned on by this social justice predator side of Chris. “I couldn’t let them do that to you. To anyone,” he quickly added.

Patting his face dry, Tom smirked. “How did you know we were in here?”

“I saw them chokehold and drag you in.”

He paled. “Oh.”

Chest still tight, Tom tossed the paper towel and started in the direction of his backpack but his face must have registered the pain still radiating in his core, because Chris jumped forward and snatched it up for him.

“Thanks,” he said again, smiling in bemusement as Chris hooked first one strap and then the other through his arms and settled it easily on his shoulders like a gently worn coat.

“You’re welcome,” Chris said, low, his eyes meeting Tom’s again. They stared for a long moment before Tom’s face flooded with pink and he had to look down.

“Anyway. Thanks. I better go.” He moved to step around him but Chris blocked him from leaving.

“Tom, about before –.”

“It’s okay,” he cut in. “You don’t owe me an explanation. It was weird, and I was sort of scared, but I’m okay not knowing if you’re not comfortable telling me. As long as, you know, you’re okay too.”

It was a little strange, this exchange, as if both were being very careful with their words, but at least they were addressing it, and honestly, it was nice to be able to look Chris in his eyes not clouded by pain. The past few weeks displayed the version of Chris he was used to seeing – happy and laughing, joking with his friends, and most importantly rested. The bruises were gone from the sensitive skin under his lashes, and his face displayed a healthy glow only heightened by the lovely shadow of stubble on his cheeks and jaw.

He’d felt that stubble on his neck, when Chris had sagged against him in the parking lot, defeated, lethargic. He wanted to feel it again, under different circumstances, with Chris alert and willing.

Still, Chris seemed a little frustrated standing there in the bathroom. “It’s just,” he said, trying to find the words. Unable to help, Tom only waited. “It’s just that, they started up only recently, and no one really knows about them. My headaches.”

Tom was suddenly reminded of the dream he’d had where Chris had admitted something similar. The promise he’d made lingered on his tongue now, ready to roll free. “Why doesn’t anyone know?” he asked instead, dropping his gaze to the bulge of bicep muscle stretching the sleeve of Chris’s shirt. “Why the big secret?”

Chris shrugged. “I don’t know. Makes me feel weird. Like I’m weak.” Tom opened his mouth to disagree but snapped it shut when Chris turned away and walked over to the window, looking up at the glass. The scowl was back. “I don’t like it, not being in control. And when that pain sets in, when I can see only pinpricks of color through the haze, when any kind of light makes me want to vomit, my legs shaking…” He swallowed and put both hands on his hips. “I don’t like it.”

The pain in his stomach had shrunk to a bearable ache, his chest looser, but his head still throbbed vaguely, discomfort enough. He couldn’t imagine the kind of agony Chris felt when one of his migraines struck. How disorienting and incapacitating they must be.

“What happens if you get one at school? Or during a game? Don’t people know about it by now?”

“Nah. They don’t happen all that frequently. Last big one I had was almost two months ago, just as the season started. It was probably tryouts that triggered it, the running and the squatting and the lifting. It wasn’t hot, then, though, so I’m not sure…” He drifted off, lost in thought. “Usually it’s just a deep aching, something that lingers. I try everything. Pills for the pain, drink a ton of water, block my windows. And I can go weeks without getting a big one, but that day in the parking lot…I felt it coming on, it’s why I left the field before I wanted. I usually stay later.  I’m sorry. That was something you shouldn’t have seen.”

“Why not?” Tom whispered, stock still.

But Chris didn’t immediately answer, and when he did it wasn’t to his question. “I hoped to get through the summer without another one. Season is over for us, but I always attend a summer league with a couple of other districts. They run June through September. Colleges like that kind of stuff. Coach knows I get headaches sometimes and he’s careful about replacing me should I need the rest, or testing the boundary to see what I can endure. And honestly, I start most games and I don’t like to make a fuss if I feel I can tolerate it enough until the games are over. But this other coach won’t know that. I’m a little nervous about it.”

Outside, the hallways were silent, the echoes of the warning bells long gone. He was monumentally late to history but he wouldn’t miss this opportunity to speak so openly with Chris, not when he was finally explaining. But Chris suddenly blinked and glanced around, as if realizing where they were and who he was talking to. He spun to Tom and shoved his hands in his pocket, squinting slightly in that way people do when uncomfortable.

“I don’t know why I told you that. Sorry.” His foot started sliding toward the door. “I actually…I should go.” He was at the door in three long slides. Too surprised at the change of pace in their conversation, Tom stared as Chris made it to the door and pushed out without a backward glance, his hand leaving a smear of sweat on the glass.

**

_I don’t know who is stupider, those fucks who tried to beat him up, or me for having absolutely no chill._

_I don’t know what it is, but I’m usually not that awkward when speaking to people. Adults love talking to me, mostly about baseball and acceptance letters and scholarships. Strangers on the street, asking directions or the cashier at a gas station, smiling, all easy. Or with my friends, it’s all girls and homework and this or that party or movie or album._

_Watching those guys drag him into the bathroom was like watching a kitten get tossed into a well. I will personally break your shit for being so goddamn awful. Moving across the hall and pushing through the door was like nothing. But seeing him thrown on the floor like that, choking on air, and those two fucks sneering down at him…I’m surprised I didn’t pop a blood vessel and die._

_The pressure in my head builds over time, I think. It’s mostly behind my eyes, just under my scalp, the throbbing seeping down and making everything fuzzy. I didn’t used to worry about it; people get headaches all the time. But recently, I’ve been forgetting things. Where I put my car keys. If we had homework in math, when the history project is due. I’ve started writing myself notes, reminders of things, and I’ll find them and remember, like pulling blue ribbon from a cubby hole and being surprised when you notice it’s red._

_I’m trying to not be alarmed. The dread I feel when I know one is settling in is immediately supplanted by the relief that overtakes me once it’s over and I have a vague understanding that it won’t be for some months before I get another one. Or, at least I can only hope._


	5. Chapter 5

Tom:

Personality disorder. That might be it. But then again, maybe not. It wasn’t like he witnessed Chris swing from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other all the time. But the two instances they’d spoken closely had shown him a short fuse for irritation and frustration, bordering anger. But that had mainly been when Chris was under the worst of his migraine throes, or recounting his confusion of why he suffered from the headaches at all. Anyone would be irritated.

Which is why he was hesitant to blame a disorder when Chris seemed to display fairly rational behavior under his circumstances. It didn’t make it any less disquieting when he caught sight of the tightly closed drapes in Chris’s room, or stared at the spot where they’d almost crashed and remembered the thin restraint he’d kept on the pain that would probably have rendered other people unconscious. Juxtaposed with the smiling person he saw in the hallways or in P.E., he was resigning himself to the fact that he might never know exactly why Chris was the way he was.

In any case, the short time they were acquainted served to benefit him in one major way. He’d seen Jared just after breakfast the next morning and couldn’t help noticing the swollen shiner on his right eye. Giving him a loathsome glare that lasted approximately two seconds, he’d since ignored Tom completely, making him wonder if he might be able to breathe easy from now on.

The end of the semester was drawing to a close. He had one summer left before his senior year, after which waited college and the work force. How dull. The money he made at the ice cream shop was decent, holding him over while he figured out what he wanted to do after graduating. Ice cream and books, he mused, mussing his hair with shampoo and lathering his arms with soap before bed one night. If he was ever desperate enough for online dating, that would be his profile headliner. _Ice cream and art and a killer lip ring._

**

The atmosphere at school was one leaden with mushy, overworked brains and the inescapable buzz of the nearing summer vacation, the hallways thrumming with energy and the weird haze of exhausted studying. After saying good morning to Estelle, Tom grabbed his breakfast and sat at his usual table, cracking open a book and laying it on its broken spine to read while he gobbled up his eggs and bacon. The book was really good, about a turn of the century psychic living in London plagued by the spirit of a pernicious dead soldier, and he read through several chapters before being hissed at by Estelle that the warning bell was going off. Clambering to collect his things, he deposited his tray on the table by the exit and then winked at her from the door in thanks. Pushing through, mostly everyone was in class and the hallways rang with the echoes of disappearing feet. He headed out the courtyard and toward the Sciences building, glancing over at the parking lot as he half-jogged, half-read from his book.

But a figure caught his eye and he slowed his pace. Standing at the curb just beyond the small rise of the bridge connecting the parking lot to main campus, was Chris.

Weighed down by his backpack and an athletic bag, he reached the rail by the bridge and grabbed on, keeping his balance. Facing the ground, he held fingers to his head, the shadow of a grimace on his face, the familiar hunch of discomfort that Tom recognized from before.

Freezing, he lowered his book as he stared at Chris, wondering if he was about to have another dark migraine. If he was, then he might not make it to the front gate much less through most of his morning’s classes.

Still, he hesitated. Maybe he was misreading the situation and Chris didn’t need any—.

—The athletic bag on Chris’s arm slipped down heavily and he stumbled just slightly, his hand pressed hard over his eyes, the other grappling for a grip on the rail—.

Pivoting immediately, Tom hurried across the stretch of pavement, his backpack slapping against his spine with every smack of his feet. He reached Chris and took his elbow, leaning to search his face.

“Chris. Hey. Are you okay?”

As if not knowing him, Chris cast panicked eyes at first, but then recognition set in and he visibly relaxed, eyes drifting closed again. His moan was quiet and small.

“Is it another big one? So soon?” He squeezed Chris’s elbow, reaching for the other, the athletic bag tumbling to the ground. The veins at Chris’s temple and neck bulged, his face reddened, sweat prickling his temples. “Take a breath. Go on.”

Chris nodded, inhaling a shaky breath, his voice caught somewhere inside him. He swallowed and blinked about, his long fingers still covering him from brow to bottom lip, and Tom was caught once more by the impossible length and thickness of such lashes. After another minute of consciously calm breathing, Chris leaned against the rail and squinted at the desert brush in the dry wash running south of the parking lot.

“I just…Sorry, I’m just…” He took another breath, the sleek tendons on his arms bulging as he squeezed the rail with huge fists, barely containing his frustration. Glancing around, Tom saw that they were alone, the sunlight glinting brightly off the tops of the cars parked in neat rows, hot air gusting around them, whipping Chris’s hair in wild arcs.

“Take it easy. It’s okay. Give yourself a minute.”

The look on Chris’s face had none of the hostility or wariness as that first day they’d met; now, he was resigned but cooperating, listening to his quiet instructions, all of the power in his body focused on the muscles bunched and flexed as he fought to control whatever pain might be building.

“Where is it?” Tom whispered, and Chris gritted his jaw.

“Behind my eyes. But it’s not bad. I just…got a little dizzy just now. It’s an ache but not sharp like when a big one hits. Ah, Christ.” His eyes squeezed shut and there was a flash of his straight teeth. Tom’s grip on his elbow tightened, a reflex.

“You should go home.”

“No. I have a test in history, and the team’s meeting after school for scrimmage play.”

“I thought season was over.”

“It is. We just do that every now and then. To stay fresh for our summer league.”

The concept of team sports was not one of Tom’s fortes, neither was the camaraderie and sense of common ground, so he said nothing despite his disapproval.

Looking at him under the wisp of lashes, Chris laughed. “You don’t look happy.”

Tom straightened, caught off guard. “What?”

“You were frowning. Your lip ring turns in a little.”

Blood rushed to his cheeks and he could feel them burning. If it wasn’t for the discomfort etched in Chris’s eyes, Tom might have believed he was flirting with him. What to say to a thing like that?

Chris shrugged. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

_No. It wasn’t._ But he swallowed it down, suddenly at a loss for words.

Chris rubbed at his forehead, behind which pain sparked and gathered, building until it burst and downed him in one fell swoop. This giant boy, the one of the long legs and wide shoulders, the one whose hands could palm Tom’s entire head, flattened in an instant. It amazed and terrified him. How could migraines do such a thing to people?

“Hey Chris!”

They both turned toward the lot, where a boy was jogging up to them, laden with his own athletic bag. Tom recognized him as Chris’s teammate, remembering him from some of the games he’d spied on. He immediately dropped his hand from Chris’s elbow and took a step back. Chris glanced at him but his face was inscrutable, a wall slamming back up at the appearance of his teammate.

“Sammy, hey.” There wasn’t the usual strength to his voice, his skin pale, putting up a front. But Tom knew better, narrowed his eyes at the weak nonchalance Chris tried to display, standing taller than before, his grip still tight on the rail.

“Fucking accident by the gas station. Backed up for miles.” Sammy glanced at Tom for the first time, as if surprised to see him. And why wouldn’t he be? Tom never spoke to anyone, much less a star athlete like Chris. It would seem odd that he and Chris were just standing around by the parking lot, especially after first bell. Looking a smidgen suspicious, he smiled at Chris uneasily and said, “Everything good?”

Chris shrugged and grabbed his athletic bag off the ground. “Yeah, man. We saw a snake. But it’s gone now.” His friend immediately lit up and leaned over the rail to the ground below, the brush declining sharply to meet at the base of another dry creek bed, smaller and running beneath the short bridge they stood on. Such sightings of reptiles were not uncommon, but the excuse cut into Tom deeply, feeling suddenly out of place.

“Anyway, listen, I was thinking that I should start at short for scrimmage later on…” Sammy clapped Chris on the shoulder, effectively dismissing Tom without another glance. It was difficult to miss the wince Chris gave, as if the contact hurt him, but he allowed himself to be steered away, his eyes sliding to Tom’s for a brief moment, just long enough for Tom to see them shutter closed again, the exhausted flutter of lashes, before he dropped his gaze and a weak smile came over his lips, replying to something Sammy had said. They walked off together, their shoes grinding the fine sand and pebbles coiled in loose tufts on the pavement. Reaching the double doors to the gymnasium, they disappeared inside and he was left on the bridge, shame coloring his cheeks red.

The rest of his day was weirdly quiet. With Jared and Mike backing off, he was free to roam as he pleased, but he still retreated to the music room for his lunch break, outlining a report for a book his literature class was reading.

The interaction with Chris on the bridge didn’t sit right with him, and he couldn’t figure out why. Chris seemed on the verge of opening up to him, less guarded, more willing to show the vulnerability that so obviously bothered him, but the sudden appearance of his friend had eradicated that small progress. He wasn’t sure if it was because Chris was adamant about no one knowing of his headaches, or if he’d been embarrassed at being seen with Tom. Normally, such speculation wouldn’t bother Tom in the least; he knew people had prejudices against the loner kid. But receiving it from Chris, a person he – perhaps mistakenly – thought he could get to know better, it strangely hurt, the idea that Chris would be different from the rest of them. Why had he thought such a thing? Because he was the hottest guy he knew? Because knowing something secret about Chris meant they were suddenly friends? Because the look in Chris’s eyes as he walked away from him with Sammy had shown just a little bit of regret, and something other, like apology?

Scowling down at his notebook, he admittedly didn’t know and it made him uneasy.

It was those damn teeth and how very much he liked them. Was it his fault that he thought Chris would be a tremendous friend – if not lover – if he just let his guard down a little bit? Girl or boy, it didn’t matter. Such arms weren’t made if not for hugging, and such teeth if not for biting and nibbling and _god_ what he wouldn’t give for a hickey from those lips.

He was being stupid.

Chris was straight and moody and it didn’t matter anyway because school would be over by the end of the month and he’d lose himself in his summer job and summer books and summer drowsiness. He’d think about another piercing and sleep in most mornings and find a pool to lay beside and maybe get a tan. The one thing he wouldn’t do is Chris Hemsworth and it was probably for the best.

**

_I really need to get my head out of my ass._

_He came to help me and I blew him off. The thing is, I wasn’t prepared for another headache to set in so soon. Thank God it wasn’t full blown like last time. I would have fallen right over the rail and into the bushes to die a humiliating death by headache. And snakebite probably. No, it was only rumblings this time, that fucking ache behind my forehead, but it scared me. It seemed too close together. And he understood that. Right away._

_“Is it another big one? So soon?”_

_Maybe it was the soft tone of his voice, so close to me. He really was worried, and not the joking kind of brush off worry that my friends might show. They would laugh and punch my shoulder and tell me not to be such a pussy. They’d expect me to recover immediately, ready to crouch behind home plate for nine innings without a complaint. It was agony on my legs and back muscles alone, not including that little twinge in my head that grows and grows until I’m nearly blind with the pain. And honestly, it hasn’t been going on long enough to say with any kind of certainty that this is how it always is, but I like to be prepared. I like to anticipate. And if I have to start guessing, then I’ll take precautions. Like my dark room, like feeling actual relief now that season is over and I don’t have to be out there nearly as much, for random scrimmages, sure, but not the grind that I grew to fear this last season. How am I going to do it this summer? I never thought I’d come to fear the sport I love, but it wakes me up sometimes, the wondering, the wondering._

_What’s wrong with me?_


	6. Chapter 6

Tom:

Another weekend came and he was back in his room doing homework, his dad downstairs preparing a dinner for himself and Emilia. Seemed like they’d continued speaking after her short bout of ‘frostiness’, and had met up a few times in the weeks since. Even now he could hear her laughter float up the stairs, their voices muted as they conversed. Tom was hesitant to admit it, but she seemed nice. Had a strong sense of character. Plus she was smart. And pretty. His dad could do worse, and had in the past. There were some cringe-worthy moments he recalled of dates his father had brought home, and depending on the vibe of the woman Tom would make a hasty escape to the library or bookstore. But Emilia seemed all right, so he didn’t feel awkward about sticking around, albeit upstairs and out of sight. His dad had mentioned a few times that she’d asked about Tom and wished to pass on her hellos, had even said that he could join them for dinner if he wanted. But Tom politely declined, not yet ready for something like that. He was happy they could stay in whenever they felt like avoiding the restaurant crowds, so he gave them their privacy.

Sitting at his window, knees curled up to his chest, he underlined a passage in his book and flipped to the following page, wanting to corroborate the quote with an argument he made in the report due next week. But out of the corner of his eye he detected movement in the mirage of green and pastels that was the Hemsworths’ backyard, a muscled leg hooked over the brick wall, arms lifting the bulk of a body up and over. But the person teetered there for a moment, as if catching their breath. Sitting up, he cupped his hand on the glass and squinted. He could make out Chris’s blond hair, but not much else.

Without even a thought to reconsider, he unlocked the window and pushed it open.

“Psst!”

The blond hair shifted and then Chris was peering up at him through the giant leaves. His eyes narrowed.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tom called down. He wasn’t sure but it looked like Chris’s shoulders sagged a bit, probably hating that Tom was always catching him in embarrassing positions. Maybe he shouldn’t have let on that he saw him? But it was too late now and Chris was shuffling closer on the lip of the wall. He said something, but all that Tom caught was ‘forgot my key’ and ‘locked out’.

He frowned. If he didn’t have a key, what was he planning on doing in the backyard? Waiting in the slightly less hot shade of their jungle plants?

“You can’t wait down there. It’s boiling.”

Chris shrugged, that angry scowl back on his face.

“Why don’t you wait up here in my room?”

This time, Chris’s eyes found his a little hesitantly, glancing up at him through the green, and Tom couldn’t help but be reminded of the sharp and lethal gaze of wildcats, their stare so still and quiet. Before Chris could say no, Tom smiled and waved an arm. “Come on. I’ll open the door for you.”

And then he closed his window, his heart pounding as he stepped backward to the middle of the room where he knew Chris couldn’t see him. There was a distinct feeling of disbelief twisting in his gut that he had done what he did. That the blood surging in his ears wasn’t an earthquake, that he had invited over the boy that had made him feel so confused and a little like the sparking end of a sliced live wire, and he marveled at his own daring, that he could be so dumb and brave.

Glancing about, he saw clothes and sneakers strewn on the floor, books and notes everywhere. And his bed was unmade. Oh God.

Knowing it would take Chris a few minutes to walk around the corner and up his street – if he even decided to come over – he set about tidying up. Clothes flung into his closet, snapping the door closed, shoes under the bed, books in respectable stacks, notes in order on his desk. He made the bed and fluffed his pillows – _why_ he couldn’t say – and sniffed at the air but couldn’t tell if it was foul in any way. He looked presentable enough, in jeans and a faded yellow shirt with small purple raindrops dotting it throughout. He should change it. Should he change it?

But the sudden panic at the thought that Chris might be approaching the door at that very moment sent him hurrying down the stairs and through the den. Soft conversation floated in from the dining room and he peeked around the corner to see his dad and Emilia sitting down at the table, eating and sipping from tall wine glasses. To get to the front door, he’d have to pass by the archway into the dining area, so he might as well get it over with.

He stepped into view and his dad’s eyes swung up to meet his.

“Tom,” he said, smiling. Emilia turned to look at him, also smiling. Wow, her teeth were spectacular. White and straight, her red lipstick doing her all the favors. His dad gestured to the food. “Still want to join in? I can make you a plate.”

“No, but thank you. I’m expecting a…uh, friend.”

His dad frowned a little. Visitors were usually cleared with each other first, but he must have seen something in Tom’s face, a little wild maybe, that he let it go. “Okay. There’s plenty of food, if you wanted something later on. For your friend too. We’ll probably head into the den, after,” he said, looking at Emilia to confirm. She nodded and whispered yes, her eyes friendly and a little bright from the wine. There was a knock at the door just then and Tom leapt at it, pulling it open to find Chris standing there in black basketball shorts and a red sleeveless athletic shirt, looking sweaty and a little overheated. Tom’s mouth went dry, catching the slow slide of a drop of sweat slipping out behind Chris’s ear to trail down his neck.

“Um, hi,” Chris said, lifting a hand adorably, as if afraid he might be rejected right there at the door.

“Come in,” Tom said, standing aside. Chris crossed the threshold and glanced around, his eyes falling on the dining table where his dad and Emilia sat smiling at them with bemusement.

“Hello, Mr. Hiddleston. Mrs. Hiddleston,” Chris said, nodding at them in turn. Emilia, in the middle of taking a sip of wine, blanched slightly, coughing ever so delicately before patting her mouth dry. Catching her breath, she waved a hand kindly at Chris, and Tom, mortified, ran smack into Chris’s back, his hands coming up to press against wide-winged shoulder bones, pushing gently, urgently. Taking the hint, Chris stumbled forward and out of sight, mumbling a quick goodbye. Just before he escaped behind him, Tom mouthed _sorry_ in the general direction of the dining table but his father only grinned and waved him away. He may have enjoyed that just now but Tom wouldn’t want to have to face whatever conversation followed with Emilia.

And yet, she seemed a good sport about it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Chris waited for him in the shadowed alcove of the stairs, his feet appearing before the rest of him did. Tom caught up with him and they hovered there.

“Shit, did I say something wrong?”

Away from the glare of the lights downstairs, Tom couldn’t help laughing quietly. “No, it’s okay. It’s just that, she’s not my mom.” His smile grew at Chris’s horrified expression. “She’s this woman my dad is dating. I think they work in buildings right next to each other or something.”

They were whispering, standing only a foot apart in the stairwell. Lining the wall were portraits of family and friends, of Tom throughout the years, and he sincerely hoped Chris didn’t turn that second and see the one of him as a fifth grader, gap tooth and all.

But Chris seemed mired in his own humiliation. “I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot.”

“Please don’t. There was no way you could have known.”

“Well, I should have. You look nothing like her.”

“Well, now you know why.”

They took the next step slowly, both rising another foot. They were angled a little awkwardly, to continue climbing up but to also remain facing each other. It was with a drowsy jolt that he realized he could smell Chris this close, the scent of his skin something of sun and a little green and sappy, from the jungle out back most likely, and lingering still, clean sweat.

His nostrils flared.

Clearing his throat, he smiled shyly and took another step. Chris stared at him a little longer, hand on the bannister. But then he too cleared his throat and his gaze landed on the one photograph of Tom’s mother that his dad insisted they keep. In it, she had been about twenty, wearing a lavender dress with a peek of white bra strap showing. Her hair was blond and curly – like his – and wild, hanging down her back. Chin tilted low, she was smiling at something in her hands, but her eyes were on the camera, playful. Chris examined her for a moment. “Your mom was really pretty.”

Tom shrugged. “She is. But people tell me I look like my dad.” He had a secret suspicion that people only told him that was because it seemed the most polite thing to say, that he looked like the parent who had stayed. Still, he didn’t phrase it like a question, seeking confirmation, just an honest statement.

Hesitating, Chris only said, a little quietly, “Not really. No.”

Taking the lead, he climbed the rest of the way up and headed toward the open door of Tom’s room, as if he’d known this whole time, which one it was.

A little stunned, Tom stared after him, unable to help the smile spreading slowly across his face.

But back in his room, he left the door ajar by an inch and walked over to the window seat, where he’d left his homework. A little stiffly, Chris sat down across from him, and then almost immediately stood right back up again, aiming toward the corner of his room that was the least drenched with sunlight.

“Sorry,” Tom muttered, reaching for the curtains. “I can close these.”

Sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, Chris shook his head. “It’s okay. Here is fine. My head feels good, actually. But I’m not sure how much longer I would have lasted out there. So, thanks.”

Smiling, Tom shrugged and gathered up his book and notes again, folding himself against the window, pretending to read and spying on the boy across the room. Chris was openly curious, glancing around at his belongings, and it was through his new eyes that Tom saw what his room was to a stranger. Taking in the few posters on the wall of musical bands, Chris’s gaze lingered on the reproduced artworks taped carefully from floor to ceiling. There were the recognizable classics of Van Gogh and Monet, Dali and John Singer Sargent, Klimt and Vermeer, Goya and Pollock and Waterhouse, Jacques Louis-David. But then there were the pieces by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, so many of them. These were his favorite, and he stared hungrily at Chris to gauge his reaction to them.

Most were of pale-skinned women in scenes of gardens and local streets, completely nude or garbed in robes and peasant clothing. But others were of a specific topic, and he saw Chris peer curiously at a few _. Madonna of the Lilies_. _Pieta_. _The Holy Women at the Sepulchre_.

He tossed him a look over his shoulder. “Are you religious?”

Tom set down his book and walked over to him, soundless in the socks he wore. Standing just beside Chris, he barely passed the rise of his shoulder, could see the soft ends of his hair tucked behind both ears. “No,” he said softly. “But I really like what he does with light, you see.” Pointing to _Pieta_ , he touched the edge of Mary’s hood with the tip of his finger. “Just after Christ was removed from the cross. His mother holds him in her arms. Here, the angels surrounding her, even Jesus, are bathed in light. But her eyes are shadowed, the depth of her despair shown through the way Bouguereau ages her face, the tears barely seen but there. So that, despite the angels acting as a sort of halo of light around mother and son, it is the darkness over Mary’s face that is the focal point, where you can’t help but notice her complete heartbreak.” Too afraid to see if Chris was looking at him like he was crazy, or worse, was even listening, he continued on. “And this one? This is _The Holy Women at the Sepulchre._ The position is a little weird, seen from behind the women into the sepulcher where the angel announces Christ’s resurrection. But what I love about this one is that, even through their dark robes you can see the dimensions of their bodies, the folds of the cloth, the long shadows along the standing woman’s neck, and her eyes especially. Bouguereau does amazing things with bone structure. You can see the sinew and muscle beneath the skin, the shine of tears in the eyes, the veins crisscrossing through a wrist.” He flicked his finger to _The Seated Bather._ “See her shadow thrown on the wall? And the perfect reflection of her foot in the pool? The dimples in her knee caps…”

He slowed and finally glanced at Chris, but was surprised to find him already staring back. There was something quiet and hidden in the way Chris caught his eyes, the searching way he studied him. Tom’s heart ratcheted to his throat and he swallowed thickly, blinking and waiting.

“Do you have a favorite?” Chris finally asked, his voice a whisper.

And something about it set Tom’s cheeks aflame, and looking too closely to miss it, Chris darted his eyes over his face as one might track the shifting light of a firefly.

“A favorite? Um, well. Those, I think. And I love the _The Virgin Mary_ ,” he said, indicating a simple painting of a woman in a head scarf done in golden creams and browns. “And I can’t ignore _Aphrodite_.” He laughed quietly, showing Chris the painting of the goddess done from shoulders up, too breathtaking for words. “The way he ever so carefully blends her dark hair into the black background…I couldn’t dream of such skill. Also, I think he liked brunettes?” His smile grew when Chris chuckled. “Normally, Mary or even Aphrodite are drawn as blondes, but most of the women he painted were dark haired. And his women always showed such spirit, even sassy attitudes at times. Looking at the viewer as if with a secret. Even Mary, in this one called _The Virgin, the Baby Jesus and Saint John the Baptist_ displays something nearing annoyance or barely controlled fatigue looking down at the boys. Like she’s tired, but she’s also good, so she’s being patient and quiet with the holy children. I don’t know,” he concluded quickly, shrugging. “The women in his paintings fascinate me.”

“He only drew women?”

“Mostly. But I liked how Jacques Louis-David painted men.”

Chris shifted a little so that he faced Tom fully, still using that soft tone. “What did you like about his men?”

“Oh.” Tom nearly stuttered, hands clasping before him and wringing slightly. “Well. I think it’s because his men were prettier than most. But still rugged and a little raw around the edges. Even if it was mostly David’s wishful thinking, as he tended to glorify the men in some way, beautify or enhance them to render them likable and attractive. Take his painting of Napoleon.” He pointed to the one. “Full command of his rearing horse, which was actually a mule in real life, face turned to the viewer almost defiantly but still calm and oddly youthful. Or _The Death of Marat_ , here.” He sidestepped until he found the photocopy. “Murdered in his bath, which is where he had to soak all the time to help with his horrid skin condition. He’s positioned almost as a martyr would be. And he’s attractive in this scene, but in real life not so much. Yet, the lighting, again, is amazing. Almost heavenly, it touched the length of his arm and the sharp ridge of nose and forehead, fading out lower to the shadowed portion of torso. See the stab wound? But look at the forearm, the veins and tendons. I mean…” He couldn’t continue. It was too embarrassing. He was blabbering and jumping too quickly from work to work. Chris would think him obsessed or insane.

“You know,” Chris said, cutting through the silence. Tom snapped his head up at him. “I read somewhere online that people are more attractive or something, from the left side. I think these guys had that figured out because mostly all of these have people angled to the right, showing their left cheeks.”

A fissure of relief cracked through Tom’s breastbone and he exhaled a little shakily, nodding. “Yes,” he said, voice thick. He cleared it. “Yes. I believe that’s right. Interesting, yeah?”

Chris lifted his brows, smiling as he edged away, studying the rest of his wall. “Yeah. Interesting.”

“So…you said that you forgot your key?”

Chris sighed, the whites of his eyes appearing just briefly as his lashes fluttered, annoyed. “Yeah. Me being completely stupid. I got out of my car, locked the door, closed it, and then stood there patting around in my pockets but the keys were still in the ignition.” He laughed. “At least the car was off.”

Tom made a face. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. My mom will be home tonight. If you have things to do I can wait out back, like I said.”

“I was just going to work on some assignments, but I have all weekend.” Chris thanked him quietly, and Tom stopped himself from asking why he hadn’t retreated to any of his other friends’ houses. Instead he said, “Where’s your mom work?”

“At the hospital downtown. I’d hoof it but…” He let the sentence slip into silence, shrugging. Just then, Tom’s cell vibrated in his pocket. He nearly jumped out of his skin, and fumbled to retrieve it, mumbling an apology. But Chris turned back to the wall, eyes skimming over more of the artwork.

There was a text from his dad.

_We_ _’ll be in the den if you want to grab food. Is your friend staying long? Do I need to be worried? Wait to have sex until you’re out of the house and you’re like 35 k thx._

Swallowing back a growl of frustration, he typed back a response.

_He’ll be here for a bit. We’re gonna do homework and omg I’m not having sex what’s the matter with you._

_My dad spidey senses are going off. It’s like a bleating alarm in my head. Is that the boy you were talking about before?_

_We_ _’ll be down in a little bit. Aren’t you on a DATE?_

_In kitchen grabbing coffee and a crumb cake. She likes raspberry. Is that the boy?_

_YES BYE._

_Bye luv you._

He stuffed his phone into his pocket and smiled up at Chris, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching him. His posture was cool and confident, something Tom could never pull off.

“Wish I’d known. I would have brought my books,” he said, lifting his chin toward Tom’s schoolwork by the window. Tom couldn’t tell if he was mocking him or not, so he said nothing. In any case, he put his homework away and turned on the television. They both sat on the floor at the foot of his bed, a wide space between them, and watched a show about the nine planets, which Chris seemed really into – “I refuse to acknowledge any claim that Pluto isn’t a planet” – and it was comfortable enough that Tom suggested he run downstairs for some food, if Chris was hungry.

“My dad and Emilia are probably in the den by now.”

Chris put a hand his stomach, face very serious. “I’m always hungry.”

And it was such an endearing thing to say, Tom couldn’t help his grin.

They snuck down the stairs, pausing at the base and listening. Chris shadowed his every move, standing close as they heard voices from the den. Smiling up at him, Tom flicked his head toward the kitchen. They piled their plates high with Italian sausage pasta and mounds of crisp salad that they drenched with dressing and croutons. Tom filled a plastic bag with chips and cans of soda and water bottles, cookies, and gummy bears from the cabinet over the refrigerator. They almost tripped in the dark hallway, stifling snorts and laughter before racing back up the stairs and into his room, closing the door behind them. Settled once more on the floor, they leaned back against the bed and ate while watching a new show about the cosmos. The silence between them was amiable, both stuffing their mouths with food and drink. Sitting with his legs crossed, Tom’s right knee brushed Chris’s left, but neither moved to add space between them, and they soon dug into their bag of cookies and gummy bears.

The light shifted into slow darkness, and soon only the square illumination of the television framed them in light, munching slowly. Plates and empty soda cans set aside, they lounged lazily at the foot of the bed, Chris’s legs spread out straight, Tom’s curled to the side, body angled toward Chris but not looking at him.

“Are you…feeling okay?” Tom said quietly. “Did staying indoors help you?”

He caught the slow lift of Chris’s smirk, shifting in the blue light of the television. “Yeah. I really think so. Thank you for this, Tom. You really saved my ass.”

“Good. I’m happy to help. And anyway, you saved me once before too, so, we’re even.”

Plucking at the tight weave of the carpet, Chris smiled and said, “Oh, so that’s why, and not because you usually catcall down to guys all the time?”

Tom pressed his cheek to the mattress and laughed, shaking his head. “God, no.” And then before he could think twice, he said, “Only if I think they’re really cute.”

It was a sudden and dangerous thing to say. His heart bounded to his throat in a panicked beat but his face remained calm except for the blood rushing to his skin. In the eerie blue light of the TV, he doubted Chris could see it.

Chris, who was staring at him with something a little suspicious in his eyes, his brows two hard slashes. He looked down, at his fingers tugging at the carpet. “You don’t think I’m cute.”

Tom hesitated. Did Chris only say that because he was prompting him…or did he actually think that because he was straight and therefore didn’t believe in boys liking other boys? Caution – and excitement – flared in him like a blanket of fire. “Maybe.”

Chris’s fist thumped lazily onto the carpet, a small gesture of exasperation. “Prove it,” he finally said, a half-kidding tone lightening his voice. And Tom was ready to spring, spine tight as a wire, coiled from waist to ankle, ready to move. But it was the under layer of jesting that stayed his motion, his heart deflating slightly. Staring at him with sharp eyes, Chris shook his head with another smile.

Feeling the moment slipping away, Tom rose on his knees in one quick move and bent over Chris, his hands grabbing both sides of his head, angling it back until his mouth was presented, his lips sinking low to press there hard.

Their faces were touching, and he felt his veins ignite with fire.

The kiss lasted all of five seconds.

Stiff as a board, Chris remained still beneath him, eyes sprung wide, hands lying clawed on the carpet. He’d inhaled once, sharply, at the contact, and then hadn’t breathed again. When Tom finally – painstakingly – pulled back, Chris’s face was white as a ghost, the splintering display of lights dancing over his shocked face. Very slowly, Tom let his hands slide free of all that hair, and rested back on his haunches. He shrugged with a small bubble of breathy laughter, nerves barbing his stomach into twisted knots.

“Proved it,” he whispered, and then rose to his feet in a hurry. His chin stung from the sharp points of Chris’s stubble. He turned his back on him and moved toward the door, intent on flicking on the ceiling light and making what he’d just done evaporate. “Your mom might be home. Maybe you should call – .”

There was a sudden rustle of movement behind him and his words dried up in his mouth as he spun and saw Chris moving. In the dark, he braced himself, breath catching, shoulders tightening, thinking once more that he was about to get his ass kicked. But instead of drawing back a fist, Chris lifted both hands and grabbed hold of his head, mirroring Tom’s gesture from before. His mouth crashed heavily into Tom’s, the force of his weight stumbling them both into the wall where they collided heavily and he was pressed flat.

The noise he made was small, lodged deep in his throat, but their lips were touching once more and he couldn’t think for all the bursting stars in his head. Chris was enormous, a hulking shadow hunched over him, a hawk over a panicked dove, his scent flooding his nostrils and making him dizzy. He curled both hands into Chris’s shirt, fisted the material, and tugged. Chris tripped even closer, his weight bursting Tom’s lungs and making him drag his mouth free for air. He gave a small whine, but it was for a second only, a precious second before Chris sought him out just as fast and pressed his tongue in for good measure, smothering his voice, his breath.

Tom moaned, a soft, surprised sound, but he flicked his own tongue obediently, curiously, and was surprised to discover he adored the wet strength of the muscle in his mouth, the smooth slide of it against his own.

Their teeth clacked. Their teeth.

They hung there in the air for an infinite moment, tongues twined, arms wrapped around each other, before their equilibrium began to dip and they started a slow slide to earth. Down the length of the wall, pictures and posters torn and dragged down with them, until they crashed to their knees, the jolt finally breaking them apart.

Gasping, they gazed at each other. The warmth in the room had tripled, the light of the TV had brightened, and Chris’s eyes looked black in the murky dark. Gusting breath, shivering ends of silky wheat stocks crumpled between his fingers, Tom couldn’t begin to imagine letting him go. He smelled so wonderful, like everything a boy should. Sweat, grass, the lingering scent of body wash.

“Oh,” was all he managed to breathe, shaky and a little broken. Chris said nothing, his eyes skipping down to his piercing, licking his own lips as an afterthought.

“Tom, I—.” His voice was shot, gorgeous and husky, like a man parched. He blinked and pulled back a bit, his hands slipping low to Tom’s waist, hovering there. “Tom, I don’t know…I mean. I’m sorry.”

Swallowing, Tom managed, “For what?”

And after another eternity, Chris said, a little afraid, “I don’t know.”

Just then, Tom’s phone vibrated in his pocket and they sprang apart from each other like the lit ends of torn electrical wires. Chris rocked back and sat heavily on the floor, a hand tufting through his hair. Tom pushed to his feet and yanked his phone free, another text from his dad.

_Emilia gone now. Help me with dishes._

He didn’t respond, only stared down at Chris like he would into the face of a man sent to kill him. He was terrified, his heart beating a mile a minute.

“I should go,” Chris said after a moment. He wouldn’t meet Tom’s eyes, and it nearly undid him. But he managed a nod and went to open the door, confusion and sorrow blooming in the deepest part of him. What had just happened?

They descended the stairs slowly, Chris behind him. But just before they stepped into the main hallway, Chris clutched at his elbow and Tom jumped back, convinced he would die of a heart attack. A long moment passed, Chris on the step above his own, towering. Slowly, he moved to his level. His eyes slid down to where he held Tom, both feeling how very much Tom was shaking, and his fingers squeezed him gently. Tom’s breath stuttered out, but he snapped his lips closed, vertigo threatening to subdue him. Silently, Chris bent low and slowly kissed the corner of his mouth, his lips grazing the metal piercing.

And then he was pushing past him, out into the light spilling in from the den. His voice as he thanked Tom’s dad and said goodnight was calm, if a little high. So he was as affected, but hid it better. Touching a palm to his mouth, Tom took a deep breath and then joined them quickly, hoping his face was a normal color. He waved goodbye to Chris as he slipped into the darkness beyond the front porch light, and then closed the door, wondering just what the fuck he was meant to do now.

“Wow, what a dreamboat.”

He groaned. “God, dad. Don’t.”

His dad chuckled and went about turning out all the lights on the way to the kitchen. “What the heck were you guys doing up there this whole time?” He paused by the table, reaching to collect the dirty plates. “You didn’t have sex, right? Because you look a little flushed and I don’t know, maybe you guys…”

Rolling his eyes, Tom went to help him. “No. Trust me, I wouldn’t be walking right now if we’d had sex.”

His dad paled a little and he sort of slumped down into one of the chairs, hand to his chest. “Please. My heart. I need it for at least twenty more years.”

“Come on, old man. Dish time.” He went upstairs to collect the plates he and Chris had used – eyeing the slope of torn artwork on the wall that was the only evidence of what had happened – and then returned to the kitchen to help clean up, feeling his lips swell just slightly with the flush of blood and the memory of another pair pressing to his own.

That, if anything, reassured him that maybe he hadn’t fucked anything up at all.

**

_I came. And I came. And I came._

_I felt it in my bones, they were about to rupture. There’s nothing left in me. I’m a dried husk. Hollowed out, breathless, the blankets on my bed feel scratchy but my lips are tingling and I can’t erase him from me now. And I wouldn’t have anyway, even before this._

_Fucking Christ, he kissed me. I’m not even sure why I said for him to prove it, because if there was anything that made me half as nervous these days as getting a damned migraine was facing the feelings I was starting to have for him. Ever since that day I tried to get a few ground balls in after school, when the heat had wormed its way too deep and my eyes had started their bruising pulse, when he half-carried me to the shade of his car…I’ve been stupid and afraid._

_But I won’t be anymore. I won’t be. If he’s game, so am I._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for all the lovely comments! I read and each every one, and I will reply as soon as I am able to. You're the most amazing readers <3

Tom:

He and his dad spent Sunday playing laser tag at the entertainment rink across the city, and then had pizza for dinner and saw a movie before heading home.

“So tell me,” his dad started, “are you guys gonna date?”

Near a coma from carbs and completely sore from laser tag, Tom wanted only to drop into bed and sleep, but he managed a shrug and continued staring out the window.

His dad reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “Come on. Don’t go morose teenager on me now.”

Rolling his head to face him, Tom smirked. “What if I told you that…I kissed him?”

His dad’s eyes widened but he kept them on the road. “Wait. Is he even gay?”

With a sudden pang in his chest, he remembered the hard crash of Chris’s mouth on his, the bruising press of lips, the clack of teeth, his tongue, and then the almost frightened look on Chris’s face just before he said ‘I have to go.’

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted, gazing out at the blinking striped line in the middle of the road.

“What did he do when you kissed him?” His dad’s brows turned down and he put a hand on Tom’s knee. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? He didn’t get ‘offended’ and or anything like that?”

Tom smirked and shook his head. “No. I mean, there was a split second I wondered if he would punch me, but he didn’t. And in the end, he stood up and kissed me back.”

His dad gave a long whistle. “Whoa. New developments.”

Fully interested in an opinion now, Tom turned sideways in his seat. “But what do you think that means?”

Not answering at first, his dad turned left into their neighborhood. In the dark, the lit numbers of the dashboard smeared over his glasses and hid his eyes. “Well, I think it means he likes you too. And that he probably isn’t exactly as straight as you might think.”

The dark of night was punctuated by the glowing orbs of the houses lining the street, but it wasn’t enough to hide the small smile that formed on his face in the reflection of the window, solid and unwavering and private as the houses zoomed by.

**

Except for the creaks in the floorboards, the house sat silent. Curled around a pillow, he stared through the muddy shadows at the far wall where a strip of white tore jaggedly through the dark patches of the artwork hanging so neatly there. He could still feel the hard jab between his shoulder blades from when Chris had crushed him to the wall, feel the tingling swell as their lips met, the impossible press of heat and muscle, long fingers curling him closer.

He sighed, toes swishing in the sheets.

Something cracked against his window, such a small sound, as loud as lightning is bright. He popped his head up, straining to see through the murk. There was only a strip of moonlight from behind the curtain, and for one split second, he imagined that something more sinister lurked there, watching him, ready to pounce. When the second crack came, he bounded out of bed and toward the window, flinging the curtains aside and peering down.

A figure stood on the lawn out back, the moonlight making his hair white and his teeth bright as he smiled up at him.

_Chris_.

A third pebble was clutched loosely in a palm, but he dropped it to the ground and raised his hand in shy greeting. A little dazed, Tom unlocked the window and pushed it wide, mouth hanging open in disbelief. He leaned on both palms, angling into the cool night air.

Chris’s smile widened. “Hey,” he whisper-shouted.

“Hey,” he said in the same volume. “What are you _doing_?”

Chris glanced around, as if only now realizing it was close to midnight and everyone sane was asleep in bed. “Where were you today?”

Tom straightened, surprised Chris knew he’d been out. Had he looked for him? The thought dried his mouth out, and he licked his lips hurriedly.

“We had a father/son sort of day.” He smiled and leaned on the sill with both elbows, hands dangling in the air.

“Yeah? What’d you guys do?”

“He loves laser tag, so we did that for a few hours, and then saw a movie, and then ate tons of pizza. We got back late.”

“Yeah,” was all Chris whispered, because of course he knew. He’d been watching for him. Tom’s stomach did a little flip. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“No. It’s okay. I actually wasn’t asleep.”

“Me too. I took the longest nap today and now I’m all wired.”

Tom laughed softly.

“Listen, um. I was…well, I was wondering if—.” Chris scratched his head, a nervous gesture. His stomach in bubbly knots, Tom leaned a little lower.

“Wondering if?”

Sighing, Chris squared his shoulders and turned his face up to him. “I was wondering if I could have your number.” 

Tom wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. The question left him speechless. “My number?” he said dumbly, and Chris nodded.

“Yeah. To your cell phone.” He grimaced a little, self-conscious.

As happy as the request made him, he couldn’t help feel suspicious of the intent. It was a defense mechanism, especially after being the butt of so many jokes, the target of so much bullying. Even if Chris had never given him any reason to fear mockery or physical harm, some habits die hard. “Are you…you’re not playing a trick on me, are you?”

Chris’s brows dipped low, his smile evaporating into a confused frown. “No…no way. Tom, I wouldn’t…” He stopped, swallowed hard, held his hands open. The gesture was oddly comforting to Tom, this display of shy unease and attempt at direct honesty. “I think people have treated you like shit. And they’ve hurt you. But I couldn’t. I won’t.”

Chewing on his bottom lip, Tom finally nodded. “Hang on. I’ll be right down.”

He left his window ajar and slipped into some Converse, leaving on the shorts and shirt he wore to sleep. Walking lightly on the stairs, he winced when they creaked once, at the base, but then he was hurrying along the soundless tile of the kitchen and toward the back door. He slid it open, careful with the metal track, and then stepped out into the back yard, the air fresh and a little chilly. Deserts were known for hot days and cool nights, sometimes made electric when the monsoon storms rolled in. But tonight was clear, the air light and fluttery on his skin. His legs were bare and he was strangely okay with it.

Chris waited for him in the middle of the yard, appearing taller than usual, like a tree stalk awash in moonlight. He wore basketball shorts and a short sleeve shirt, the colors indistinguishable in this shifty light.

“You came down,” he said, his relief palpable. His gaze drifted down Tom’s form, lingering at his knees, and then up again. His smile was soft.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t blame you if you hadn’t, because I think things have been done to you that are cruel and unfair. But I really hoped that you would.”

Tom gave him a slow study, glancing from feet to the tips of his ears. He looked nervous but happy; he imagined the pulse at his throat would be fast, just like his. Quiet and serious, he said, “Why do you want my phone number?”

Chris took a step toward him and then stopped. “Look, I have never been with a guy. I’ve barely even been with a girl. But I can tell you that I’ve been feeling things for you that I’ve never felt before. And I can also tell you that you’ve been more of a friend to me than anyone else.” He took another slow step, and Tom’s pulse skittered. He crossed his arms, but refused to step back. Voice going softer, Chris continued. “So when I look at you, I can’t help how pretty I think you are, how _good_ you tasted, but it’s how kind you’ve been to me that does it. And I don’t know if I’ve properly thanked you.”

There was a foot of space between them now, and Tom could smell the vaguely spicy scent of Chris’s shower wash. Nostrils flaring, he rocked slightly on both heels, fully aware of the tiny step Chris took towards him. “So,” he whispered, the edge of Chris’s shirt coming into view as he stared at his shoes. “You only like me because I’m nice?”

Chris sniffed, catching the playful tone in his voice. “Don’t,” he said, laughing quietly.

A smile tugging at his own lips, Tom said, “I guess you wouldn’t like me if I was mean, then.”

A big hand grazed his elbow, fingers curling to cup it gently.

“I’d like you still.”

“Oh?”

“Oh,” Chris agreed softly. “I’d just have to work double time to see that smile.” He started to bend toward him, but Tom skipped back, and Chris’s eyes widened with hungry interest, his smile turning wicked. “Let me kiss you.”

"You liked that, did you?”

  
"Yes. Haven't been able to stop thinking about it since last night."

  
He made another swipe at Tom but he slipped away again, muted laughter tickling his throat. "What else did you like?"  
  
"The small noise you made. It's in my head, on a loop. And I want to make you do it again."  
  
They circled each other in the yard, in the heavy dark, both smiling, a teasing undercurrent sparking between them. Chris had a dark glaze over his eyes. The more Tom spun away from him, the more predatory he became.  
  
"What else?" It took him a moment to realize that the gaspy voice belonged to him. And it was too late before he realized he was cornered, caught between the brick wall and a gnarled tree that twisted into the night sky, its leaves outstretched in a laced canopy. The night was a little darker here, and he caught the shine in Chris’s eyes.   
  
"Your hair, how soft it is. Your neck, how long it is. I want to touch your skin, feel you all over. I haven't wanted to see another person naked as much as you. I want to kiss you again."  
  
Tom paused mid step, heart pressing almost painfully to the inner cracks of his ribcage, and it was all the chance Chris needed. Moving with purpose, he took two long strides and grabbed Tom up with both hands, one on his waist, the other his neck, moaning as their mouths bumped once, twice, and then the kiss became solid and true. A hard embrace, fingers clawing, arms reaching around. Two stumbled steps back and they collided with the tree, Tom’s shirt snagging in the cracked bark, their feet tripping on the roots until they found a tricky balance.

With muted grunts, elbows banging, shoulder blades digging into the tree their kiss never broke, and they moaned. A quick drag of air, noses bumping as they moved fluidly left side to right, parted lips and then _tongue_. Tom's whimper was echoed by a pleased groan from Chris, who cradled his skull and pressed into him bodily, their hips and the softer parts between.   
  
"Gimme your number."  
  
It was playful still, their words, their silly grins, the shifting promise of their long legs. "Why?" he gasped, fisting Chris’s shirt and digging into the small of his back. It was so sudden, the long plane of heat that was Chris from chest to flat belly. He was so heavy. Tom’s legs threatened to split wide open and let him fall against where he was beginning to ache.   
  
Nearly growling, Chris nipped at his ear and squeezed him tightly when Tom shuddered. "You know why."  
  
"I want to hear you say it."  
  
"I like you. I like you. I like you." Punctuated with a kiss; cheek, nose, lip ring.   
  
Another sound, strangled.  
  
"Let me have it."

“No,” he said, a little firmer, and Chris leaned back, eyes shifting between his own.

“Why,” he said softer, a small bit of fear creeping into his voice. 

“You know why,” Tom whispered, still gripping Chris’s shirt in both fists, still tugging him close, keeping him there, urging him to understand his meaning. A slow moment passed where Chris blinked at him and said nothing. But then his eyes flicked down to his lip ring and something in his brows softened.

“I’m sorry,” he said, palming one side of Tom’s neck, his thumb sinking gently into the hollow of his throat. “I know that first time we met…I wasn’t myself. I’m sorry for how I’ve brushed you off, that time, and again on the bridge. These headaches, no one knows about them. But I like that you do. I feel relief that you know. It’s not so much of a burden feeling this…this crazy vulnerability about the pain that shoots through my skull now that you _know_. So I’m thanking you again, for being there for me. And I’m apologizing again that I was rude to you, that I brushed you off like that. It won’t happen again.”

A lump had formed in his throat and he swallowed it down, desperate not to cry. But he was moved, and all that Chris had just said mattered to him. He was relieved, and so happy.   
  
"Okay,” he said, nodding, a little breathless. “Okay.”

Chris hesitated. “Yeah? Like, _okay_ okay?”

“Yes,” he laughed, feeling the dip of Chris’s spine under his fingers. “You can have my number.”

Their smiles were twins, the tips of their noses brushing. “Thank you,” Chris whispered, his breath gusting over Tom’s cheek as he bent closer and kissed him again, softer this time, big calloused hands framing his face, thumbs brushing just under his lashes. With a sweet smack, he pulled back. “I really like doing that.”

Something fluttered loose in his belly and Tom laughed up at the sky, Chris’s lips tracing him from nose to brow to ear to jaw, sprinkling him with kisses. “Did you bring your phone?”

Delight lit Chris’s face and he straightened to his full height. “Yes! It’s on the wall.” He took Tom’s hands and pulled him away from the tree, both careful with the exposed roots. The happiness Chris showed now was exactly as Tom had always known existed inside him. This was how he was. The darker moods seemed accompanied by the headaches, or a direct result of them, and he kept those private because they embarrassed him. The distance he tried to fortify between himself and Tom was thwarted by the attraction that might have always been simmering there, amplified by their sudden encounter that fateful Friday in the parking lot. But this, the boy stretching to reach the phone he left on the lip of the wall separating their properties, bouncing on his heel as he came to stand beside Tom once more, the flash of teeth and squinted eyes, this was him. He knew it deep inside, and they grinned at each other as he programmed his number into Chris’s phone, their fingers grazing like buzzing lights.

**

His alarm startled him from sleep. It was five in the morning, and there was a purple-winged dragonfly sitting calmly on the pillow next to him. Blinking the crust from his eyes, he gazed from the placid insect to the window, still open from last night. Catching the bug was as easy as cupping his hand over it and closing his fingers carefully. It buzzed and knocked against the hollow of his palms, but he thrust it out into the open air through the window, letting his gaze land on the shuttered one across the way. He had no idea what time Chris woke up for school, but they’d see each other eventually, in the hallways or during P.E. Their kisses from last night felt unreal and foggy, heated rasps that left them breathless and floating, like in a dream. And the way Chris had scrambled over the wall and perched there like a handsome gargoyle, reaching a hand so tentatively and cupping Tom’s head like a blessing before smiling until his eyes crinkled and finally disappearing into the jungle green of his backyard. The image would never leave Tom’s mind in a hundred years.

But first a cold shower to snap him into focus and food to fuel the courage to face the day.

He dried his hair with a spare shirt lying on the floor and pulled on his favorite briefs and pair of black pants, their snug fit cupping his bottom nicely. After some deodorant he put on a dark purple shirt and laced on the grey Converse he wore last night 

“I made you French toast,” his dad called out from the kitchen as Tom pounded down the stairs.

“Oh, yes, I’m starving.” He ate at the counter, pouring syrup over the cinnamon sprinkled bread and shoveling pieces into his mouth.

“Good God, slow down,” his dad said, handing him a glass of milk. Tom grunted and thanked him with a nod, gulping it down. “What’s for dinner?”

He shrugged, snapping his fork through the toast for smaller bites. “Maybe that barbecue place by the bank?”

Scraping a pan clean, his dad nodded. “Okay, sure. Yeah, I like it there. I’ll call you when I’m off and you can tell me what you want.” They agreed, and his dad finished with the dishes, dried his hands and gave Tom a quick kiss on the top of his head before heading to work. Finished with breakfast, he clattered his plates in the sink and grabbed his backpack from the floor.

Unsure if Chris had left for school already, Tom decided to play his routine as if nothing had changed. It’s not like he had imagined they might start carpooling to school together, but the idea may have crossed his mind in a fleeting half-dream sometime between stealing back upstairs and waking to the oily stare of a dragonfly. He thought, if it ever came to that, he’d like it very much.

The parking lot was still mostly empty when he arrived, and he didn’t see Chris’s car. No missed calls, no messages, and no green Honda had his heart skipping with a beat of nervousness, but he stuffed it down and aimed for the cafeteria, fighting back his doubts that last night had even happened. He greeted Estelle and grinned when she pinched his cheek, and then stocked up on food for the day. Still full from breakfast at home, he pushed out into the hallway and decided to wait in the library until first bell. Twisted sideways, he was tugging his book free when he smacked into someone standing around the corner. The book slipped from his hands and fell to the floor, landing face down. He caught sight of his bright green bookmark peeking out from a corner before lifting his eyes to Jared.

With a cruel glint in his eyes, Jared very gently pressed his shoe down on the book until they both heard the spindle cracking of the spine.

“Stop!” Tom shouted, shoving at Jared’s chest with both hands. Jared stumbled back with a sneer, eyeing Tom as he crouched and picked up the book, cradling it carefully in both hands as both covers flopped brokenly.

“Like being down there, don’t you?”

Anger sparking through him, Tom stared up at Jared. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

Another sharp laugh and Tom cast a nervous glance behind Jared; Mike’s absence didn’t bode well for him, already anticipating a trap set somewhere down the hall. Shifting on his knees, Tom winced at the physical creak his book gave, sighing as hugged it to his chest.

Jared’s sneaker nudged his leg, and disgust crawled over Tom. “Aw, is the little baby gonna cry? No football player boyfriend around to save you this time?”

“Fuck you,” he snarled, not bothering to correct him about Chris’s sport. But instead of responding, Jared’s blue eyes snapped up to something behind Tom, and his face darkened with anger. Glancing back, Tom saw Chris standing just off his shoulder, burdened with his own bags, staring steely at Jared.

“Boo,” he whispered, and Jared spun on his heel, a furious scowl on his face. Down the hall, Mike sauntered out from a corner and they both disappeared out a side door. Chris eyed them silently, and then held a hand out to Tom. “Are you okay?”

Breathing in deeply a couple of times, Tom finally nodded and took Chris’s hand. Chris hauled him up and they stood there, a foot apart, eyes soft and a little wary on each other.

“I was going to offer you a ride when I saw you leave,” Chris said, eyes flicking down to Tom’s mouth. “I followed behind a minute later.”

Something about the slant of freckled light through the set of double doors, and the tender ache in his knees, had him suddenly shy and he dropped his eyes, folding his book closer to his chest. “Thanks,” he mumbled, cheeks hot. The corners of Chris’s lips tilted up in a soft smile. “How did you know I was here?”

“Heard you shout.”

More heat on his face, his eyes glued permanently on the intimate angle of their shoes. A long finger came up and traced his cheek and he took a small step back, but the row of lockers halted his retreat and he swallowed with nowhere to go. Chris inched closer, and his chest jumped in a hollow gasp as Chris began to dip his head.

“Chris—.” He glanced down the hall nervously, but there wasn’t a soul in sight.

He could hear the smile in Chris’s voice, the tips of their noses grazing. “What is it?”

“We’re at school.”

A chuckle. “You’re observant.”

His eyes flashed in warning, and Chris held up his hands quickly. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Head beginning to clear, Tom straightened and tugged his backpack higher on his shoulders. But he had only a split second to brace before Chris swooped in for a quick kiss, a stolen token, their lips bumping sweetly 

Heart ramming out of his chest, Tom squealed slightly, hand darting out to grab Chris’s forearm. They parted with a loud smack, both breathing hard.

“You’re really cute when you’re flustered,” Chris said, squeezing his elbow. But then he paused, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. Humming, he murmured, “Syrup,” and kissed him again. He let Chris press him into the lockers, his eyes sliding closed, their fingers finding each other and twining. The back of his head rested on the cold metal, face tilted up, and he smiled when they broke apart. The sun streaming through the double doors doused Chris’s hair in gold, making it brighter.

His heart skipping, Tom licked his lips, taking a moment to catch his breath. “How are you feeling today?” he said. It was nice to be able to slide his hand over Chris’s forearm and know it was okay. The bump of vein and smooth trace of golden hairs was something he liked very much.

Chris shrugged. “Pretty good. No pain.”

“Do you play tonight?”

“Nah. We scrimmage on Wednesdays in the off season.”

“Then what’s in the bag?” he said, indicating the athletic bag at Chris’s feet.

“My uniforms from regular season. I wash them and give them back to Coach.” He grazed the tip of his nose with Tom’s, and smiled when Tom’s eyes crossed slightly.

“What do you wear during the summer?”

“Leagues provide us with uniforms. Can I ask you a question now?"

Swallowing a little nervously, Tom nodded, liking the quiet stillness of the hallway and the surrounding lockers, the cool shift of the air conditioner drafting over their heads.

“Do you like me?” Chris said, eyes dropping, his lashes long and thick on his cheeks. Their bodies were so close together he could feel the heat radiating from Chris, seeping into his clothes, his skin. He tightened his hold on his arm.

“Hey,” he whispered, a grin growing on his face. Chris’s gaze darted up. “I wouldn’t have let you kiss me if I didn’t like you.” 

A matching smile was returned to him. “What would you have done instead?”

“Kicked you right in the nuts.”

He paled slightly, but looked relieved nonetheless. “I’m happy you like me. So…like, _a lot_ a lot? Or like, I’ll tolerate him because he’s sorta cute and also he’s really buff –.”

Tom tossed his head back and laughed. “Wow, you are _so_ modest.”

“My best quality,” he said, grinning.

Those bright blue eyes caught on his throat and then Chris was dipping his head, his mouth closing on a tender patch of his neck. Tom gasped, rising on his toes, a shiver rocking through him.

Chris moaned, his big hands sliding under Tom’s backpack and holding him gently over the snug, moist fabric of his T-shirt. It was with a flutter of lashes that Tom realized Chris could span the entire length of his spine with both hands. Skimming his mouth up to his jaw, Chris nudged his nose behind Tom’s ear, and Tom’s shoulder folded in, giggling. With his book clutched in one hand, he slid both arms around Chris’s neck and tucked his face into the warm crook, breathing him in.

“I like you a lot,” he whispered, and felt Chris smile into his hair.

Somewhere around the corner, a door slammed shut and they sprang apart, both flushed, the din of voices rising.

“See you in P.E.?” Chris said, touching his fingers to the inside of Tom’s wrist. Barely able to contain the giddiness swelling in his heart, Tom gave a single nod and Chris took a step back, his finger drifting away. Winking, he headed down the hall and disappeared around the same corner Jared and Mike had taken, Tom waving shyly before heading to his first class. He concentrated well enough, following along with the lecture, taking notes, eyes skimming over the paragraphs on the Revolutionary War, but the back of his mind tickled with little bubbles of memories, blinking and seeing Chris’s sleepy gaze one second and the peek of his tooth ridge in the next. And their kisses – all the kissing, and the groping, and the burst of breath on his skin – it was so much he doubted it was even real.

But the longer he sat there circling his pen on the corner of the page, like a deepening tornado of blackening awareness, he realized quite suddenly, _any_ public interaction with Chris would make things very real, very fast. The thought settled like a coil of unease in his belly, however dim it was. Apart from the unfortunate attention Jared and Mike often paid him, he’d cultivated an impressive air of invisibility at the school. A relationship with Chris Hemsworth – golden boy athlete – would change all of that. In truth, he wondered if it would all be for the better, if Chris’s presence in his life would help him, or make things easier. Or if it would catapult Tom into an even more glaring arena of scrutiny than he was prepared to handle. Which made him feel like a total shithead because he was the one that had initiated the follow-up conversations, except for that time in the bathroom. Chris had jumped in on his own, and it was flattering and felt really good to know that there was some kind of reciprocation. Apart from the silver lining belief that he might not get beat up as hard as he’d expected, Chris’s sudden presence had his heart tripping over itself, his feelings for him loosed in a way that was new and a little scary.

Very scary. Different and scary. 

He chewed on the end of his pencil, the teacher’s voice droning to an easily ignorable hum as he stared so long at the map of the continental United States that it blurred. It wasn’t until the bustle of activity around him drew him from his daze that he realized with a jolt that his classmates were packing up and rushing to the door, class over. Chris was nowhere in the hallways, but that wasn’t surprising. Their schedules often kept them from running into each other, unless they started making more of an effort to find each other and be together in that easy, public way of other couples. Maybe he would skulk his way toward the gym, like always 

“Hey, peach,” he heard at his ear, a heavy arm loping over his shoulder.

Surprised, his cheeks flared red when saw it was Chris and all of his ridiculous, gorgeous six feet. The hallway shrank down to a terrifying rabbit hole of fuzzy glimpses at his passing classmates, and he flinched, catching some watching them walk through the frenzy, others oblivious and ensnared in their own drama and laughter. But all noise snuffed out and he was limited to the burning sensation of Chris’s arm on him, the slip of an easy smile on his pretty lips, the echo of _peach_ ringing through his ears. 

Chris must have felt something, because he loosened his hold but did not remove his arm, hooking his hand into the threaded loop stitched into the top of Tom’s backpack. Backing off, but not cutting off the contact entirely. Somehow, the hold felt even more intimate, an easy familiarity. He liked it, _God_ he liked it, but the stares—.

What was his problem?

“What’s wrong?” Chris whispered, pulling them into the sciences wing, which was less crowded. His eyes skimmed over him quickly, assessing. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, and then licked his lips. “Yes,” he repeated, stronger. “You surprised me, is all.”

“God, I thought I’d scared you. I felt so bad. I hoped you wouldn’t think it was those idiots from before.”

Tom smiled. “No. They’ve backed off since…well, you. So, thanks.”

Tapping him on the chest lightly, like a friend would to any other, Chris winked at him and started backing up down the hall. “I’ll see you in an hour, peach.”

The full weight of the nickname eased on him and his face burst with color, something that made Chris grin even broader, the smug smirk of someone who knew just how much he affected you. With a last lingering look, he disappeared into the adjoining hallway, and Tom, hugging his book to his chest, couldn’t help dipping his chin and hurrying down the hall to his math class, his smile secret and small.

P.E. came quickly. Chris hung back in the hall by the gymnasium, and flicked his finger lightly on Tom’s chin. What a month ago he anticipated would have been a regular embarrassment fest riddled with casual spying on Chris was now a completely different reality. Chris didn’t leave his side for a second, not even when the class split into two groups, one playing basketball and the other a match of dodgeball. Tom knew Chris would usually choose basketball, his friends staring at him in confusion as Chris took up one of the tight red balls and ambled to the other side of the gym, Tom trailing him. There was no way Tom was choosing basketball. His hand-eye coordination was nil, he had no practice at aiming a ball at anything, and the surging anxiety whenever the ball was passed to him would leave him frozen and ineffective. That Chris knew this about Tom and had chosen something that would be easier for him was both embarrassing and endearing.

There were two types of people who played dodgeball – those forced to, and the bullies. Free reign to hit another student with absolutely no consequences was the wet dream of people like Jared and Mike, who would normally target Tom like a bullseye. A game like basketball had contact to contact regulations, and while there was usually none in dodgeball either, there was also no such thing as a foul, no matter how hard you got hit.

It was pure luck Tom had this class with Chris, and not something less threatening, like Algebra or English Lit. But P.E. found the teacher divided between clumps of students performing different activities, easy opportunities for Tom to get picked on. And while he might not have always known it, he tended to stick close to where Chris hung out, the track, the courts, the field. Tom would half-ass his way through whatever bullshit exercise they were expected to do, all the while trusting a crowd to protect him from the teasing and affording him ample chance to watch Chris at his best.

Only now, Chris was taking position on one side of the twisted limp rope separating the left side of the gym, angling Tom behind him without a single touch. How does he do it, he wondered, reading the easy grip of Chris’s huge hand on the bouncy ball, whose thin rubber skin over his career as a high school student had scorched marks on Tom’s legs and chest, his arms aching with fresh bruises. Opposite them were the menacing figures of Jared and Mike, flanked weakly by other students, the smaller and weaker and vastly uninterested. His and Chris’s side had their own group of similar faces, but Tom was trying to gauge the growing sense of confidence standing next to a boy he, and many others, couldn’t have imagined would ever be an item, and bewildered by the mess of emotions tumbling through his belly.

A whistle blew and Chris was running toward the line, arm cocked back, grunting as he released the ball, a rocket that cut through the air and bounced violently off Mike’s chest. Too shocked by the abrupt aggressive start of the game, everyone stared as Chris grabbed up another ball, at Mike’s stunned and affronted silence.

“You’re out!” their teacher shouted, paying attention long enough to make sure Mike left the game before turning his attention back to the other group.

“Move, you fucking dipshit,” Jared growled, pushing Mike out of the way and throwing a ball across the line. Red balls arced over the boundary and caught some people too slow or without a care. The din of the place was immense, people shouting, balls bouncing, shoes streaking on the bright wooden floor. Each side eventually thinned, and while Tom clung weakly to a ball with both hands, he mainly dodged and hid behind Chris, whose bulk and speed kept the balls from striking him. There were a few close calls, in any case, as Jared zeroed in on Tom over and over again. Frozen, he could only stare as a red ball rocketed toward his face, growing larger and larger, until a forearm darted out from the corner of his eye and blocked the blow. The ball ricocheted harmless to the floor, a giant red mark on Chris’s arm as he took up a football stance and released his own ball, clipping the right side of Jared’s face.

“Careful, Hemsworth!” their teacher shouted, narrowing his gaze on Chris, but the damage was done and Jared was out of the game.

Mouth agape, Tom blinked several times but couldn’t be rid of the phantom image of a ball flying straight for him. That, and the fact that he and Chris were the only two left in the game, everyone else was standing along the wall, bored. They’d won. He and Chris had won. He’d never won at anything sports related. It felt bizarre, and something like cheating, as Chris had done all the work. But still, when Chris turned to him – dripping sweat, both hands on his hips – Tom’s smile grew and he hugged the ball in his arms, never having fired it once.

Back in the locker room, he changed into his regular clothes and watched as Chris slapped the backs of a few of his friends, their laughter echoing out through the lockers. He gathered up a bundle of clothes and a towel and headed toward the showers, catching Tom’s eye and winking.

God, if only he knew when such gestures wouldn’t send heat swarming through him, his pelvis turning uncomfortably tight and warm. He’d always liked looking at other boys and sizing them up, imaging things like weight and power, the slip of tongue over their teeth, but Chris was something else entirely, something magnetic. His pull to him was insatiable, curbed only by the sobering thought that their relationship would spiral Tom into a type of limelight he wasn’t used to. But that’s all it took. Getting used to. Easy enough.

Lacing up his shoes, he loitered on the bench, rearranging binders and books in his backpack, darting his gaze up at the entrance to the stalls. The locker room cleared out after a few minutes, and the only sound was the nervous thumping of his shoe on the floor and the water pounding from the showers. He really wanted to walk right up to Chris’s stall and peek around the curtain, wanted to see the water sluicing down his back, the muscles like fluid under his skin. He liked the feeling of being boxed in by Chris earlier that morning by the lockers. Liked the small tickle that raced up his spine.

The water turned off in the showers and he straightened, eyes fastened on the entryway. A minute passed and then Chris walked out wearing jeans and his tennis shoes, his shirt flung over his shoulder. Bare-chested and still a little moist, he moved easily to his locker and opened it, taking out his bag and rifling through it, the bumps of his spine drawing Tom’s gaze. He was thin enough to see a hint of ribs, but the cut of rounded muscle marked him as different from so many other boys. Tom wondered what he would look like in ten years.

He stood, his backpack drawing tight on his shoulders. Chris only glanced slightly over his shoulder, still busy with his things. Something wormed into Tom’s stomach and he hesitated.

“Hey,” Chris whispered, and everything in his voice confirmed Tom’s suspicions.

“What is it?” he asked, coming up next to him. There were still beads of water on Chris’s skin, firm and gleaming. But Chris pulled on his shirt, jamming his arms through the sleeve holes and yanking down the fabric. His movements were jerky and hurried.\

“I feel kinda sick,” was all he said.

“Not your head this time?”

“It’s always my head and always my head and always my head.” He slammed his locker shut and Tom jumped, tightening his grip on the straps of his pack.

“Okay, well. Can I help you to the nurse?”

The door flew open and students from the next gym class started trickling in. The frustration on Chris’s face was evident, eyes drifting closed as the noise level around them started increasing.

He grabbed up his bags, his wet hair flinging drops of water between them. “No, Tom. I’ll see you at lunch.”

He turned around and walked out the door, leaving Tom alone and confused by the row of lockers.

**

He didn’t go to lunch. Even if Chris had said he would see him there, Tom just didn’t feel like it. Navigating the crowds, the awkward shuffling around whether or not they could sit together, the inevitable questions. And the mood swing bothered him. Chris had been happy coming in from the dodgeball game, had even winked at Tom before heading for the showers. But the distant boy who returned ten minutes later was difficult to fathom. It was better for him to just avoid that whole situation, especially if Chris was feeling less than enthusiastic at the moment and didn’t want anyone’s help. Not that Tom would have been able to do much, his offer for help more of an offer for companionship but how was he supposed to feel when Chris had rejected it?

He liked him a lot, but the gruff way Chris had responded had his flight instincts kicking in. And so with his backpack full of books and food, he escaped to the music room and the instruments closet in the corner, where he sat on the floor behind a tilted bass resting on its wooden pedestal. After eating a strawberry pastry and half of a yogurt cup, his phone buzzed.

It was a text from Chris. _Where are you?_

His chest tightened a little, but he let the phone screen blink into darkness. He tried imagining Chris in the cafeteria, glancing around for him, surrounded by friends who would draw him back into their conversation so that he eventually forgot Tom wasn’t there. The thought just confused him more, remembering how eager Chris had been the night before in his backyard, or that morning stealing a kiss by the lockers. It was hard to reconcile that with what still stung him from their interaction after their P.E. class. Would Chris so easily dismiss and forget him because of some head pain?

His confusion was made worse when his phone buzzed again with another message.

_Babe._

And then another.

_Are you hiding?;)_

The tiny tickle in his stomach was pleasant and foreign, no matter the frown he felt tugging on his brows. Flirty Chris was delightful. Maybe he hadn’t been so quick to dismiss Tom’s absence, and based on everything, what did that mean? He liked Tom. He sought him out. He threw rocks at his window and smiled up at him in the moonlight.

God. His heart was a staccato beat, wondering, wondering, rubbing a hand down his face because he just didn’t know. Tom liked him too. It was just…a lot. This is what he got for inviting a boy into his room through his open window like some lovesick Juliet.

Another buzz.

_Want me to find you? Because I will._

His heart gave a solid thump. Okay then, he really liked that.

Skimming the clumps of yogurt left at the bottom of the container, he half-eyed the phone, curious if Chris really would find him. No one apart from the music students knew about the instruments closet. He doubted Chris knew all the nooks in the school’s layout, but there were still fifty minutes left in their lunch break. It could happen.

When his phone didn’t buzz again, he settled in against the wall, knees up to his chest, and read. Page after page, his eyes flickered to his phone and back down again, a small smile tugging at his lips as he imagined Chris scouring the school looking for him. But when Chris failed to show, he could feel himself starting to lose hope about it, and the sad tumble his heart made was more telling to him than his confusion had been.

After more than a half hour, nearly finished with his chapter, he heard a noise outside in the main room, always empty this time of day. His eyes flicked up, catching on the knob of the storage room door, pulse quickening as he waited, and waited. Sure enough, it started turning very slowly, completely soundless. If he hadn’t been staring right at it, he would never have known someone was about to walk in. Remaining still, book spread against his chest, Tom watched with bated breath, his heart doing a slow climb up his throat. And then the door cracked open and a tall shadow took a cautious step forward. Chris’s eyes caught on his immediately, and his smile was fast and wide and full of triumph.

That heart in his throat boomed.

“Hey,” Chris whispered. “You weren’t kidding about the hiding, huh?”

“Come in,” Tom said, voice smaller than he thought. “Close the door, hurry.”

Chris did as he asked, but shook his head. “No one’s around. We’re okay.”

_We_ _’re_. The flutters wouldn’t cease in his stomach.

Sidestepping a group of violin cases, Chris approached him slowly. “Told you I’d find you.”

“I had no doubt,” Tom said, hoping his smile would hide the very real doubts he’d had. Dropping down in front of him, Chris sat cross-legged, backpack still on. Tom’s feet inched away, fingers sweating on the book jacket. Those eyes were on him, the blue sharp and edged with naughty curiosity.

“Why do you hide?”

Dropping his gaze, Tom shrugged.

Nonplussed, Chris said nothing for a moment and then, “Why did you ignore me?”

Again, Tom kept quiet, bottom lip tucked in, tongue flicking at cold metal.

Bracing his hands on the floor, Chris scooted closer and Tom jerked back, the cold blocks of brick behind him unyielding. But at his flinch, Chris hesitated.

“Tell me,” he whispered, and Tom let out a shaky breath.

“You’re really popular,” he heard himself say.

“Okay. So?”

Tom’s eyes snapped to his. “And I’m not.”

Chris’s eyes softened and he moved closer still, his crossed legs butting the tips of Tom’s sneakers. Reaching his hands forward, he let them hover over Tom’s wrists for a long second before he finally took hold, bringing Tom’s hands forward and cradling them gently.

“What,” Chris started, eyes drawn to the raised veins on the backs of Tom’s hands, rubbing his thumbs over them, “are you afraid of?”

Book lying limp in his lap, Tom took a deep breath. “I’ve always stayed out of any kind of spotlight. Since, God, forever. I get bullied, ignored, made fun of. I honestly don’t know what I did to everyone, but I’ve been okay with staying out of sight. And you are my opposite in nearly everything. In courage and popularity and abilities and strength and –.”

“Stop,” Chris said.

But Tom shook his head. “And people will look at us and be like, huh? How did that happen? Look at that lame guy with that super cool guy – .”

“Tom, I said stop.”

“And half of me is like, oh my God, they have a point, and the other half is like, who cares, fuck them. He’s gorgeous and I like being around him and when it’s just me and him I can open up in a way I don’t with others – .”

Brows bent a little angrily, Chris tightened his grip on Tom’s wrists and yanked him forward. Hauled up like he weighed nothing, Tom squeaked when he fell against Chris, and he scrambled for a moment, his legs bunched between them, their noses brushing. But then he moaned on an exhale and jutted his chin forward, their mouths bumping in a hard kiss. Hands spread over his back, Chris pulled him closer and Tom’s legs parted so that he straddled his waist, his book collapsed somewhere on the floor. They kissed as they had that day in his room, frantic, clawing and a little winded; like they had again in his backyard, when the great bowl of the diamond sky yawned over them and their smiles had twinned from blushing lips.

Eager again, Chris widened his mouth and Tom felt the slip of tongue, the solid wet stroke of it, the warmth and the insistent _push._ He moaned again and Chris’s hands jerked against him, blunt fingertips digging in. He arched his back, slipping his hands from Chris’s shoulders up his neck to curl into his pretty hair, thick and smooth. Slower now, their kiss broke softly, opening their eyes at the same time, lightheaded, spinning.

Tom caught the bob of Chris’s throat as he swallowed and stared up at him, eyes so clear and steady, looking at Tom as if he were made of sugar frosting and Chris had the sweetest tooth in all the world. Tom smiled and curled a finger over the soft ridge of Chris’s ear.

“You’re silly,” he whispered.

Chris blinked. “You know what I think?” Tom gulped, because _God_ , Chris was hoarse. “I think you really like me, and I really like you, and everyone else can go fornicate themselves." 

Tom’s eyes popped, mouth dropping open.

“Like that? I learned that word today. It means—.”

“I know what it means.”

Drawing his legs in, Chris shifted so that he sat evenly on the ground, Tom still straddling him. His hands stayed pressed to Tom’s spine, the heat of them seeping to his skin. “I think about a lot about…fornicating.”

Tom smiled. “Yeah?”

Chris’s cheeks flooded with pink as he nodded. “Look, Tom, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. But I really want to do this. You know, be with you. In public. You’re all I can think about. And I can’t wait to see you every day. I know you feel the same. I hope.” His eyes shifted up, searching.

“I do,” Tom said softly. “But I also think that sometimes, I’m not sure if you…really like me as much as I like you.”

A puff of incredulous laughter. “What? What do you mean?”

“Well,” Tom said, pausing. He relaxed a bit into Chris’s lap, slowly twisting his fingers under the heavy pads of Chris’s backpack straps. “Like in the locker room. You kind of blew me off. And that’s part of why I didn’t return your texts.”

Chris’s face fractured slightly, confusion drawing his brows together, eyes darting to the side in thought as if trying to snatch at something just out of reach. 

“I don’t…I don’t remember that. I’m so sorry.”

Doubt gnawed at Tom’s insides, wondering if he’d imagined it all. But he didn’t – he couldn’t have; the entire exchange had stuck with him throughout the morning, souring his lectures. And yet, unsure now, he said nothing.

Chris shook his head. “I…I honestly don’t know what to say. Tom, I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. Shit, I feel like I keep doing that, over and over.”

“Hey,” Tom said quickly, taking Chris’s face in both hands. “I mean, it stung a bit, yeah. But I’m starting to get this strange sense that you’re a bit…mercurial.” He smiled, hoping to ease the observation, not wanting Chris to feel too harshly judged. “We need to get used to each other.”

Chris returned his smile, and said, “What’s mercurial?”

“Kiss me,” Tom breathed, and Chris jumped forward, their laughter muffled by their colliding lips. Because kissing Chris was so effortless a thing, his mouth so soft, the whiskers on his chin burning Tom, and it was good and slow, so that he dipped further down, seeking. His belly pressed to Chris’s, their chests flattened as they moved together in their tight embrace, mouths fused, noses bumping.

Heat began vibrating off his skin, gathering in the tight weave of their clothing where, just beneath, muscles contracted and stretched, wires loosening, tightening, their urgency making their breaths thin. Warm pleasure seeped into Tom’s chest, and he pressed even closer, arms snaked around Chris’s neck.

But then Chris gripped Tom’s ribcage and forcibly broke their kiss, both breathing hard, flushed around the cheeks.

Ears ringing, Tom mumbled, “No,” and tried to lean back in, but Chris squeezed him again and kept him in place, a foot of distance between them. His hands felt enormous wrapped hard around his torso, his long fingers trembling as he swallowed thickly.

“Wait,” he whispered, eyes squeezed shut. “Just…hang on. I – I need a second.”

Skin singing and sensitive, Tom tried to still his wiggling hips, but, impatient and eager, he tilted them forward until Chris shuddered with a small grimace.

“Jesus, Tom.”

Tom couldn’t help his small laugh, delighted by the rough, rasping edge to Chris’s voice.

Off in the distance, the first bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch hour. Inhaling through his nose, Chris finally opened his eyes and looked up at Tom. Bending his spine, he leaned forward and rested his forehead ever so softly on Tom’s chin.

“I want you to myself for longer.”

Tom clasped him close, and sighed. “We better go.”

Chris’s chin dipped, amused. “Can I walk you to class?”

“How very high school boyfriend of you,” Tom said, chuckling. Chris pressed forward.

“Can I be?”

“Can you be what?”

A shy smile, so different from the scowl of pain he’d known the first day they met. “Your boyfriend.”

Neither breathed for a moment, and then, “Is that really what you want?" 

Chris didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Do you?”

This was the question, wasn’t it? This was the apex of his efforts to get to know Chris better, of flirting with the fine line of vague recognition and a deeper familiarity, of helping him even when Chris didn’t ask for it, of choosing to consider the possibility that to know Chris was to be known by others – but what did it matter when, in fact, he would have Chris?

Images raged through his mind; of walking hand in hand through the hallways, of quick kisses against the lockers between classes, of rides to and from school, of hard metal bleacher seats in the strong summer heat. There was trepidation, that niggle of unease, the warning that things as he knew them were about to end. But this giant boy, with his sun-kissed lashes and straight, angled teeth, those sudden and bright smiles, he would be his and they would protect each other.

“Yes,” he heard himself say, lashes fluttering as the acceptance grew solid in his gut.

Wide and immediate, there was that smile.

“You’re skittish, little peach.” Another peck on his cheek. “I kinda like it.”

“God,” Tom said, bright as a tomato.

Legs stiff from their position on the floor, Tom used Chris’s hands as leverage and rose to his feet. Chris scrambled up after him, watching with thoughtful eyes as Tom gathered his things and slipped on his backpack. At the storage room door, they paused, Tom’s hand on the light switch. Eyes on Chris, he slowly flicked it off, plunging them in darkness. A calloused hand curled over his shoulder and Chris’s body heat engulfed him as he stepped closer.

Taking his hand, Tom pulled him out into the main music room.

**

_His hair smells like peaches. I could have breathed him in forever. And I know he would have let me. Because I don’t think alone time with him is a problem. He isn’t shy with me. But he is around other people, and I get it. He’s very sweet, and gentle. But also kind of feisty when he’s comfortable around you? God, I like him so much. Who do I thank? Who do I thank for giving him the courage to call me out that day in the parking lot when I almost crashed into him? Or calling down at me from his bedroom window? Or for coming to check if I was okay by the bridge at school? He didn’t have to do any of that, especially with how I treated him in the beginning. But I’m so grateful he did._

_School will end in a week and then we have the summer, more kisses, and all the privacy we need. I’m not as afraid anymore, of the summer and the grueling games I’ll play before our senior year._

_I’m not nearly afraid of anything anymore._


	8. Chapter 8

Tom:

 

He was scared at first. Obviously. But it didn’t happen exactly how he imagined it. Yes, people stared. Yes, people whispered. Yes, Chris’s friends were a bit confused but not unkind. He’d been nervous of cavalier attitudes, but it had surprised and pleased him how none had caused the fuss he’d imagined. Most things were made worse by living in his head first.

But talking it out with Chris really helped because Tom’s sense of not caring only grew. School was the worst, as he predicted. His face was red for days on end, but Chris was so good about shielding Tom as much as he could, bracing him away from the crowds, guiding him into emptier hallways, spending his lunch hour with him in the music room storage closet. He was so sweet, careful with not touching Tom too much or too often. He liked hooking his hand in the loop of Tom’s backpack, walking with him to class this way. They could talk intimately, side by side. And how Chris _smiled_ ; how could anyone feel bad or insecure about anything when you knew you caused something so pretty?

It was simple, really. For the last week of school, Chris picked him up in his car. Arriving together, walking in together, going to class together, there was no doubt what was going on, what had suddenly happened between the unlikeliest of boys. Except, it hadn’t been sudden. It had been a slow thing, full of anxiety and pressure, eased only when the fleeting glances grew longer and more poignant, when anger was an obstacle pushed past and patience became a nutrient for growth. When one boy almost crashed into another; when one boy cracked open a window and hailed down a thinly veiled flirtation.

No one but they knew these small developments, knew what it meant that they could now reach for a hand and expect waiting fingers, could lean close and kiss an ear, smell soft blond curls.

It was new and it was daring and natural, and Tom couldn’t breathe sometimes from the strength of it. They finished their final exams and spent the last day of school in a heady, ecstatic, numb kind of haze, everyone relieved to be done with it all, summer only a few hours away.

“Can you believe I snagged an A in Geometry?” Tom said, laughing as they walked into the gym for their last P.E. class. “I thought I’d get at least a B minus.”

Beside him, Chris rubbed at his eyes and said nothing. His hand, however, was curled over the smooth curve of Tom’s neck, loose but present. Tom glanced at him, worried. He hadn’t had a bad headache incident for a while now, and he hoped another wasn’t coming on now. It was the last day of school. They planned on going to a movie that night, their first real date, and Tom had resigned himself to living with a colony of butterflies in his stomach.

The gym was mostly empty. Nearly all the seniors had ditched, and those attending didn’t seem like exerting any kind of physical energy. The teachers were in some silent agreement to take it easy on everyone, and so they were left to their own devices. Tom headed to the nearest basketball hoop and picked up a ball from the floor. Chris followed behind, squinting up at the ceiling lights.

“You okay?” Tom asked, bouncing the ball. It landed awkwardly on his foot and rolled away.

“Yeah, just…yeah, I’m fine.” Chris squeezed his eyes and headed for the bleachers. He plopped down heavily and hunched over both knees. Tom sat down beside him, sneaking a glance around before slipping his hand around Chris’s forearm.

“You don’t look fine. Maybe some water would help—.”

“No,” Chris said, jaw clenching as he slid away from Tom. The gesture would have hurt, except Chris inched down on his back, spine collapsing like a tower of blocks until he was lying flat on the bleacher seat, his head pillowed on Tom’s lap.

He sighed. “This is good,” he whispered, turning his face to Tom’s belly and falling still.

Caught by surprise, Tom sat stiffly, hands held up as he looked around for a second time, but the few people in class were lounging on the other side of the gym, tossing balls lazily against the wall. Heart pulsing erratically, he let his hands settle on Chris, one draped lazily over his throat, the other brushing gently on his forehead.

Chris gave a small gasp at the touch, and Tom drew his hand back in a flash. Chris moaned in weak protest.

“No, please,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.”

Gulping, Tom placed his fingers on his forehead again and continued stroking softly, using his thumb to massage the frown from between his furrowed brows until they were smooth and relaxed. With one arm curled up against his chest and the other extended on the floor, Chris loosened fractionally over the next several minutes. It wasn’t until Tom noticed his chest rising and falling steadily, and the soft snore muffled against his stomach that he realized Chris had fallen asleep.

Smiling down at him, he caressed his hair and ignored everything else for the rest of the hour, content to watch Chris doze away whatever was making him feel bad. When their teacher blew the whistle to round everyone up to the locker room at the end of the hour, it took some coaxing to wake Chris up.

He rose with squinted eyes and a scowl, but his face softened when he saw Tom, the look tired and a little wan. As soon as the last bell rang, they met up at the front steps of the school and were finally free for the summer. With pinky fingers linked, they ambled to the car, both quiet. Grades wouldn’t be mailed out for another couple of weeks, but Tom knew he scored top marks in everything. His sense of completion felt solid and secure, the inside of his chest light and airy. It was something made of feathers just knowing that the next three months would be less stressful. He so looked forward to sleeping and letting his mind unwind after all the studying they’d done. Even his summer job at the ice cream shop seemed less boring, all because he knew he would be able to spend most of his free time with his new boyfriend.

The afternoon had that hazy sort of cast to it, the air buzzing with pollen, sunlight a giant ball of blinding light. The parking lot – the scene of their very first encounter – was nearly as empty as it had been all those weeks ago. And this time there were no awkward silences or accusatory glares. This time, Chris led him to the passenger door of his car and unlocked it for him. But before Tom could climb in, Chris gripped his elbow and pushed him slowly against the side of the car, the strong tips of his fingers pressing into Tom’s chest.

“Is it really over?” Chris whispered, and Tom angled his head up to see his face. He smiled and wrapped his arms around Chris’s waist, pulling him flush against him. Chris’s hair was still a little damp from his shower after gym, the roots dark.

“Yes. It’s over. I have you all to myself now.”

Chris’s eyes darkened and he ducked down for a kiss. It was hard, with a bit of teeth, and Tom moaned, curling his fingers into Chris’s T-shirt. He opened his lips and Chris’s mouth widened in response, his tongue darting in. His lip ring felt cold against their hot skin. Crowding Tom against the warm metal of the car, he towered over him, big hands strong at his hips, their bellies pressed tightly. The kiss broke a long moment later, both gasping. The tips of their noses brushed and Tom’s cheeks grew pink, eyes darting low. Slinging a hand over one side of his face, Chris grinned and planted more quick smooches to his cheeks.

“What movie should we see tonight?”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. Is your head feeling better?”

Chris offered his own shrug. “Yeah. It’s fine.” His eyes shifted to the side and he reached to open the door. Tom wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Are you sure? We can always go another time.”

“I’m fine. Are we thinking comedy? Action?” His eyebrows rose an inch. “Romance?”

Tom laughed and fell into the passenger seat. “You’re impossible.”

Chris leaned in after him. “I know,” he whispered.

**

_Who the hell knows what the movie was about. I caught glimpses of a lake and this one guy fixing a house. Also there were swans and old timey cars. It was a love story, definitely. There was that one scene where the two main characters, this cute redhead and a quiet blond beefcake, hardcore made out and then had sex, both sweaty and heaving. There was a sting of electricity zapping between Tom’s arm and my own, his hand clenching mine hard. My eyes snapped to his face, which, even in the grainy white light of the giant screen, was beet red. I know he felt my eyes on him because the corners of his mouth twitched and he whispered, “Stop.” God, I almost got hard right then. The movie was over before I knew it, I watched him for so long. It was probably creepy, but he didn’t show it if he thought so. The lights came on and the theater emptied and he smiled shyly at me._

_“Your lip ring likes to flirt with me,” I said, and his eyes sparkled as he laughed._

_“What? Why?”_

_I brushed my thumb over the shiny metal. “It’s always winking at me.”_

_“Maybe it just misses you,” he said softly, swallowing around a big smile._

_I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t say a damn thing. I just squeezed his hand and dragged us the hell out of there. We jogged to my car, his quiet laughter spurring me on until I was laughing too, the moon a giant spotlight on us. He collapsed on me once inside the heavy hush of my car, reaching across the seats to tug on my shirt and haul me closer. Our breaths were so loud, his quietest moan like a gunshot in my ear. We tumbled into the backseat and I felt him move beneath me, arching his back, tilting up the narrow cradle of his hips. I don’t think he knew just how much like fucking it really was but I was hard in an instant. Face buried in his neck, sliding my teeth from the soft skin behind his ear to the curve of his shoulder, he gave a great shudder and I felt him harden too._

_“Shit,” I breathed, pulling up a bit and looking down between us. Our jeans were tented, and it was honestly one of the most erotic things I’ve ever seen._

_“Chris,” he whispered, shifting. He was trembling, and the basest instinct in me wanted to make sure he was okay, that he wasn’t cold. The stupidest part of me ignored the fact that it was the end of May and cold wasn’t even possible. I fell forward on him to give him my warmth and he wrapped me up so tightly I felt my breath catch, and when I finally managed to inhale it was a deep whiff of peaches and salty skin._

_“God, you’_ _re amazing,_ _” I said, my breath gusting hotly against his skin. He laughed shakily, timidly, and hooked his ankle behind my knee._

_It was ten o’clock at night and the windows were fogging around the edges. I hoped whatever mall cop was on duty stayed away from our dark corner of the lot because Tom’s legs were wrapped around my back and our hips were starting up this frantic humping and every inch of me was lit with fire. His face looked milky white in the moonlight, so pale, a mermaid from the bottom of the sea. Lips parted, whispering my name, fingers curling into my shirt, he was beautiful, fucking gorgeous. Pressed flat on him, I let the tips of our noses touch and snapped my hips down._

_He gave a small cry, eyes scrunching, head thrown back so that my eyes snagged on his long neck. Cradling his head, I bent low and closed my mouth over the soft slope where his neck curved into his shoulder, and started sucking._

_The inside of my car was filled with our quiet moans, heat building in our jeans the harder we moved. It was surprising to figure this is where we’d end up, back when pain was splitting my head and I couldn’t muster more than a half-squint of annoyance at him in the parking lot. That I could hold him and suck a bruise into his skin, our hard-ons straining for the friction that couldn’t possibly be enough, it was more than my fizzy brain could handle. I was reduced to grunts, unaware of how heavy my body probably was to him, or how tight my hands might be on the base of his skull, or how painful my teeth were when I scraped them up his collarbone to suck again at the forming hickey. He was made of porcelain and I was an uncaged bull._

_“Yeah” he gasped, voice cracking. “Do it—.” He licked his lips, eyes blurry. “Do it again.”_

_The car was rocking beneath us and I was amazed we hadn’t been discovered yet. “Do what, babe?”_

_A whimper, a sharp dig of his blunt nails into my waist. “Bite me. Okay?” It was precious, that upward lilt, the question in the air, an obvious request mired in uncertainty. I didn’t hesitate. I widened my jaw and bit down right over the bruise I’d been sucking to the surface of all that milk. Violently, he arched up into me, and I felt through all my delirium his cock pulsing, hard, rough jerks. How it strained. He came with hardly a breath drawn in and now he was drowning. Eyes rolled up, a slow suffocation. I let him go to stare, fascination and greed flaming through me as my saliva glistened on his neck. My hands were like mitts on his small shoulders, and I think I cursed when I came, a pitiful exhalation that ruffled his lashes and breathed life into the whites of his eyes._

_They fluttered open, still unfocused._

_My hips slowed, the hot seep of thick cum soaking my boxers, but my orgasm was cut to the quick by worry._

_“Hey,” I rasped, shaking, pleasure ripping through me. I took his face in my hands, ignoring it. “Tom. Babe.”_

_He blinked and made a small sound, but he was finally breathing. His chest rose and fell and I saw the pulse at his neck thumping wildly._

_“Chris,” he whispered, and relief flooded through me._

_His hands, pale and long, so elegant, cupped my face. A thumb pressed against my mouth and my lips parted for him. The meaty pad of it skimmed my front teeth, sliding to the right and pressing gently upward against my canine. My breath gusted hotly into his hand._

_Those lashes trembled again and he swallowed, squeezing me just a little tighter with his thighs. Watching him, I felt as one would know what a steaming star in moonlight would look like, otherworldly, a mystery. Terrifying. Like the end of the world. I wanted to fold him gently in my shirt pocket and carry him with me everywhere, wanted to scoop him up and grow wings to fly him away. I wanted to eat him alive._

_Our eyes were locked together, as he breathed so did I. And then, with his thumb still snug against my teeth, I slowly closed my jaw and gently bit down._

_I swear to God, his cock twitched against me. Heat saturated my face._

_Our breaths sped up, our pupils burst, and we were reaching for each other, mouths crashing, tongues rolling, scratching and pulling. The sounds, my God. I’ll never forget them._

_It took me forever to get us sitting up again, both squirming at the cold slick inside our pants. Voice thick, he mumbled at me, a hand hooked around my neck for balance. He lay back against the seat like a drunk, the hair on his arms standing upright. It made me feel like a king, what I did to him, what I know I can make him feel. How sweet he was, I couldn’t stop cuddling him, smacking butterfly kisses on his jaw as language slowly returned to him. In the murky dark, I could see the bruise where his shirt snagged and revealed his thin shoulder._

_Rolling his head to face me, he smiled. But the lazy bliss on his face was shattered when his phone started vibrating somewhere in the front seat. He scrambled up and reached for it._

_“It’_ _s my dad,_ _” he breathed, and then answered. “_ _Hi. Hello._ _”_

_I could hear a voice on the other end, but the words were unintelligible._

_Tom’s eyes zipped to mine. “Mmhm. Yes. I’m fine, yeah.”  Some more words, our knees pressed together. “The movie was good. I’d been wanting to see it for a while. But we came, um—.” His face turned bright red, eyes squeezed shut. “We came to the arcade after.” Silently, he jammed the base of his palm to his forehead, clearly agitated. Didn’t seem that he lied very often. “Okay. I’ll be home soon. We’re almost done here.” Another nod, and a smile. “Love you too.”_

_He hung up and his phone went dark. We sat there in silence for a long beat, but then his hand slipped into mine and he was pulling me forward. Tangled up again, he kissed my cheekbone, my eyebrows, his lips sliding down to my jaw and the other side of my face, kissing, kissing. I held so still, my hands coasting from the small of his back to his waist, possession and satisfaction coiling in my belly._

_“I gotta go,” he whispered and I shook my head, no, no. He laughed and gave me one last kiss on my mouth._

_We settled ourselves back in the front seats, ignoring the wet spots on our jeans. Lucky him, wearing black. The streets turned darker the closer I got us to our neighborhood, but his eyes were twinkling whenever I glanced over at him. It was immensely gratifying seeing him so happy, and I think back on what an asshole I was to him at first. I had no idea his face could transform with so much light. He was – impossibly – prettier when he smiled and laughed._

_He wouldn’t let me walk him to the door, only sucked my bottom lip and then kissed my neck almost like a whisper. I couldn’t avoid the shudder that went through me, and this made him grin. He jumped out and waved to me from the door, the front light making his curls fuzzy. I drove the ten seconds it takes to get to my house, saw my mom was in bed, and then jumped in the shower._

_I was exhausted and my skin still buzzed. I couldn’t wait to see him tomorrow._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for underage sex; one-time instance of sex without lube (condom is lubricated)

Tom:

 

His dad was in the kitchen serving himself a bowl of cereal. Tom leaned up against the doorframe. “It’s ten o’clock at night.”

Grinning, his dad turned to him, crunching around a mouthful of Frosted Flakes. “I could say the same to you, young man.” He gave Tom a cursory glance-over, and Tom tried not to fidget, hoping to God whatever throbbed on his shoulder wasn’t visible. “Have fun?”

He nodded, crossing his arms and staring at his shoes. His dad slammed his bowl down on the counter.

“Oh my God, you had sex.”

Tom snapped his head up. “What! No! We didn’t.” He shuffled out the door but heard his dad grab his bowl and follow him.

“Did he kiss you? You look super kissed right now.”

“Do I?” he managed, face bursting into flames. Reaching the stairs, he was about to sprint up when his dad took hold of his elbow.

“Just be careful, okay? You need condoms, tell me. If things get too intense too fast, call me and I’m on my way.”

Tom grinned. “Trying to preserve my virginity?”

His dad nodded seriously, a corn flake stuck to his beard. “Always.”

“Guh! You’re impossible.” He started up the stairs again.

“He’s a big kid, Tom. If he gets too rough or whatever, makes you do things you don’t want to, I can help you hide a body. All I’m saying.”

Tom snorted, about to reveal that he actually really liked when Chris was a little rough, a little unchecked in his strength, but he didn’t think his dad’s heart could take it. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging me to commit murder.”

His dad scoffed. “To defend yourself? Absolutely, I am. And please. I’m a banker not a police officer. We bankers are shady people. Everyone knows this.”

Tom snorted. “So are cops.” At his bedroom door, he turned around. “Dad, he’s really nice. _Super_ gentle.”

His dad scrunched his face and said, “Lalalalalala.”

He threw up his hands. “I don’t know why you _lalala_ at me when you’re the one bringing it up.”

They weren’t arguing; they never did. But they tended to discuss things like other fathers and sons probably didn’t. He’d always appreciated that about his father, who encouraged open conversations rather than screaming fits. He could imagine how other sons might have stormed into their rooms by now rather than talk about all of this.

“I don’t know,” his dad was saying, pushing his spoon through the milky mush in the bowl. “You just seemed really happy when you came in just now. And I don’t want anything to hurt you.”

“I won’t get hurt, dad,” he said, his voice softening. “Nothing hurts me without my permission.”

Crunching again, his dad nodded sagely, and then frowned. “I almost don’t want to know what that means.”

Rolling his eyes, Tom gave his dad a soft push toward his bedroom. “Good night, old man.”

In the morning, he woke with a crippling hard-on and a massive hickey just above his collarbone. He took care of himself in the bathroom, but there was nothing he could do about the bruise. It was speckled burgundy around the edges, with the center nearly black. And just faintly, were straight red lines in two semi-circles from where Chris had bitten down.

He stared at it fondly, remembering how perfectly delirious they’d been.

The ice cream shop where he worked required the employees to dress like 1950’s style attendants, complete with stiff button-up white shirts and white trousers, black bowties, baby blue suspenders, and a crisp paper hat. Tom didn’t mind the uniform so much, and would appreciate the coverage. Except he wouldn’t start working for another two days and he suspected the bruise would only get worse before it got better. Not that he minded, really. There was something captivating about having a mark on his body that Chris had put there with his very mouth and teeth. Those incredible teeth.

He would need to be careful with the collars of his shirts until then. 

Chris texted him in the morning to come outside whenever he was ready, so Tom changed into some black jeans and a green _Lord of the Rings_ T-shirt with a gold ring in the middle _._ His dad was already at work so he bypassed the kitchen and stepped out the backdoor. Ahead was the great green jungle that was Chris’s backyard, but no Chris. He looked around, checking the chairs on the porch and around the corner of the house, but there was no one. 

Crossing over to the wall separating the properties, he climbed up to the lip and jumped over, landing squarely next to a small pond fed by a trickling waterfall.

Eyes popping, he took in the scope of the place. It really was a jungle, so much dark green foliage and blooms of impossibly bright colors. Hardly any sky could be seen through the crossed tangle of thick branches overhead. He was standing there, gawking, when something banged above him. Chris leaned out his window.

“Well, good morning, sleepy head.”

Tom shrugged, smiling. “You said to come over when I was ready, so here I am.”

Chris’s brow furrowed delicately and he glanced inside, peering down at something. Waiting, Tom stared up at him. When he turned around again, Chris had his phone held tightly in one hand.

“Yeah. I totally did.”

“You…okay?”

He nodded, his hair drifting forward to tickle his cheek. “Come on up. Door’s open.” He disappeared from the window before Tom could even ask if his mom was home. He didn’t want to intrude. A little cautiously, he slid open the backdoor and stepped into the cool interior of the dining room. A kitchen identical to his was to the left, the cabinets a dark walnut color. Just ahead was a glimpse into the living room, the stairs out of sight. It was quiet in the house, but the scent of coffee was just faint enough to hint that perhaps Chris’s mom had been gone for a while.

Climbing the stairs, he trailed a hand on the bannister as he took in the pictures hanging in a diagonal line along the wall. There were so many of Chris and a woman who had to be his mother. There were none of a father. Chris as a baby, all chubby cheeks and gurgling smile. As a toddler with hair down to his shoulders hanging from a tree branch. A few years older now, maybe ten or eleven, dressed in football gear and kneeling on a sparsely grassed field, eyes squinting in the sun. Somewhere along the way he transitioned from football to baseball, newer photos of him with a cap on and smooth brown bat positioned loosely, expertly, over his shoulder.

He paused at this picture, taken at his previous school, his jersey colors glaringly different. Chris was…not necessarily thinner, but not quite as filled out as he currently was. More muscle now, a little bigger. His hair was shorter, too. There was something missing in his face now, something that was open and easy in the photograph. Lighter.

“Get lost?”

Tom gasped and almost slipped down a step. Chris stood at the very top, smiling. He held out his hand and Tom gravitated toward it like a wave to the moon.

“No. Sorry. I just…you’re so cute in these.”

Chris smirked. “And not anymore?”

Tom squeezed his hand. “You know the answer to that better than anyone.”

They spent the rest of the day holed up in Chris’s room – identical to his own, piles of clothes and shoes and worn down baseballs and leather gloves littered everywhere, a space that smelled deliciously of the spicy pollen from the flowers outside and something a little grittier, like teenage boy.

Retreating to the kitchen for lunch, they sat at the dining table and munched on ham sandwiches and BBQ chips, sharing the last soda left in the fridge.

“What’s your mom do?” Tom asked, curious that he hardly ever saw her. “You mentioned she works at the hospital?”

Chris nodded at his chips. “She’s part of the custodial staff there.” He said it quietly, but lifted his eyes to Tom’s, waiting. To be honest, Tom was a bit surprised, but then he felt great shame in assuming Chris’s mother was a doctor if she worked at the hospital. He smiled kindly and nudged Chris’s foot with the toe of his shoe, and the growing hardness on Chris’s face suddenly dissipated.

“What’s your dad do?”

“Investment banker. He has that mathematical mind. I certainly don’t.”

Chris nudged him. “Come on. You’re a big smarty.”

Tom shrugged. “Maybe.” And they laughed together, quietly, intimately enough that Tom’s cheeks flushed pink and pretty.

“When do you start work?”

“Thursday.”

“Can I visit you?”

Tom wiped his mouth before answering. “Only if you don’t laugh.”

Chris frowned. “Why would I laugh?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

Two days later, Tom was scraping the top layer off the bin of cinnamon ice cream when the bell over the door jingled. He had just opened and the shop was still empty.

“Wowza.”

He straightened, the tip of his paper hat catching on the cold glass. Righting it quickly, he blushed when he saw it was Chris in the lobby.

“Don’t,” he said, a smile tugging on his lips, but Chris couldn’t help himself, bending at the waist and laughing. Tom slid the glass shield down and dropped the scooper in the sink full of hot water. “Jerk.”

Chris wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry. You’re so adorable in that getup. It’s just so retro.”

“Whatever,” Tom grumbled, snapping one of his suspenders and punching in his code for the register. “Yuck it up.”

Hands in his pockets, Chris shrugged his shoulders and glanced around. “So, you alone?”

“Yeah.”

Mischief glittering in his eyes, Chris leaned over the glass-domed counter and flicked his chin up, once. Slowly sliding the cash dispenser closed, Tom smiled and approached him from the other side of the counter. Hands pressed flat to the cold glass, their lips met in a soft, warm kiss, Chris’s stubble poking his freshly-shaven chin.

“I’ll take you with some strawberries and cream, please,” Chris murmured, and then dug his face into Tom’s neck with a playful growl. Wrapping his arms around him, Tom’s quick laughter bubbled up to the sizzling ceiling lights, their whispers private and adoring, his paper hat gone askew once more.

And as sweet as the array of ice creams beneath the fogging dome of glass was their summer that year. Tom worked and traded shifts when he could to spend time with Chris, who spent long days at the baseball diamond with his club teammates, scrimmaging for the summer season.

They cruised the desert streets at dusk, warm winds flooding the car and ruffling their collars, Chris’s hand a solid anchor over Tom’s. Burgers and fries and sweet fizzy drinks before pushing each other against the backseat, arching, grasping, moaning, soft kisses under the full blue moon. Love bites adorned Tom’s clavicles like a string of berries, Chris’s back pockmarked with the sickle-shaped cut of Tom’s blunt fingernails. The weighty possession of Chris’s arm on his shoulders was a steady message to those who saw them at the usual places kids their age patrolled. No one told them anything, but Tom could feel their eyes as Chris brushed his lips on the baby blond hairs at his temple, one big hand cupping his slender nape. Outside of the stifling cage that was their school, Tom breathed easier and could only smile giddily at the shawl of stars unfolding above him as Chris sucked another hickey to the surface of his skin.

The darker moments, the confusing moments, were rare, inconsistent. Chris’s headaches came and went, preceded and followed by terrible bouts of shaking in the dark of his room, his sensitivity to light driving him indoors, crippling pain behind his forehead and down the back of his neck. His swift mood changes, forgetfulness, quiet brooding, Tom noted it all with concerned unease. He couldn’t identify why it happened, couldn’t pinpoint any telling signs, not until it was too late. When Chris’s laughter would die away, a hand coming to a rest on his brow, rubbing. When he couldn’t keep his eyes open for the blinding glare of the dim light of day and Tom would need to take the wheel and drive them home. Chris would retreat into his dark room and stay there for hours, Tom circling in the garden under his window, worried. When Chris would fail to show at an agreed upon time, insisting he forgot, that he was sorry. He was sorry, so sorry, confusion and frustration cracking over his face, birthing anger and a short temper that Tom had difficulty reconciling with the person he knew Chris to really be, even if this duality in behavior was a characteristic Tom had always known in Chris, evident since that first day in the school parking lot.

And yet, this slightly crueler, more brusque side of Chris came through as disingenuous, a false facet to the kind, sweet, funny boy Chris was. Protective and loving. Considerate. What caused it? Why did it happen? It wasn’t the first time that Tom considered some type of multiple personality disorder, when it felt like he was sitting next to a complete stranger in the intimate space of the car, when Chris held his hand just a little too tightly, anger bunching the muscles of his jaw.

It scared Tom a little. Not the threat of violence; Chris had _never_ hurt him, never attempted such a thing. Just, the small, startling moments when Chris would glance at Tom across the seat, the green lights of the dash washing over his face, and appear like he didn’t recognize him at all. But then that frightful grip on his fingers, the hard desperate scrunch of his eyes, as if trying to drag himself back from somewhere remote and terrifying, and he would look back up at him with tenderness and affection, and something resembling relief.

The violence in him was rippling, brimming just there, but it was the safest Tom had ever felt with anyone, anywhere. With Chris, he feared nothing. Standing between his legs, leaning against the hood of the car, arms around each other, noses grazing, there would be that flash in Chris’s eyes, the storm gathering, the jaw clenching, and his mood would dip. Nuzzling closer, mouth on the big vein at his neck, Tom would murmur to him and soak in the small vibrations as Chris went distant and tight fisted, eyes on the far horizon. He expelled it all during his scrimmages, taking full-body blows blocking home plate, curve balls striking the dirt and cutting sharply upward into the tender insides of thighs, the heat sweltering under his catcher’s helmet, sweat pricking the corners of his eyes squinted through the front grill, pushing past the pounding in his head, controlling the game, monitoring the guy at first base thinking to steal second on him. He never lets them, his aim perfect for the pick-off.

And after, showering it all away, popping Tylenol to dull the throb behind his brow, he finds Tom and kisses him until they’re raw and aching, can’t catch their breath, impatient for more.

Salt and caramel and dirt. Tom, wrists sticky with ice cream residue. Chris, thighs mottled with bruises the size of tangerines. Work and play, tickled freckles, rasp of stubble, silky kisses over the rough edge of their bordering wall.

It was something for which they were wholly unprepared, the rising tide of their feelings for each other. Phone calls hours into the night; pinkies brushing as they sat on the rim of the wall between their houses, long legs bouncing a little nervously; strings of flirty texts; the hard kisses after a long shift or brutal practice, Tom’s skin blue with cold from the ice cream shop, Chris’s burned and dusty from the practice fields. How eagerly they tumbled against the hood of the car, their secret circle of empty desert the only witness to the slow grin alighting over Chris’s face as he snapped off the baby blue suspenders of Tom’s uniform and unbuttoned the crisp white shirt already stained from dirty hands, unveiling the milky white canvas of chest and shoulders.

“When?” Tom breathed, mouth hot at Chris’s ear, a fist clenched in his hair.

“Today,” Chris groaned, nosing into Tom’s neck, an arm around his lower back, smashing their groins together. “Right now. Please.”

“You have one?” The want in his voice was cracking and desperate.

“I can get one. I promise.”

They satisfied themselves with rough rubbing and nipped lips, both seizing as they came into their shorts, mouths hungry and fused.

It was two days later when Chris skidded up to the ice cream shop just as Tom was closing and rolled down his window. Light sparked off the reflective lens of his sunglasses, and Tom froze, hand twisted to lock the front door.

“Get in,” Chris rasped, and Tom hurried to obey, turning the key one more time. It stuck stubbornly and he pulled at it, barely noticing when the sharp edge cut into his pointer finger. He flung himself into the passenger seat and Chris peeled out of the parking lot, rubber burning in their wake.

“You got one?” Tom said, eyes glued to Chris.

Chris nodded, jaw muscles bunching.

Tom’s breath shivered out, eyes misting suddenly. He reached a hand over and laid it gently on the inside of Chris’s thigh, whispering his name. And Chris, eyes narrowing, shifted gear viciously. The car lurched forward with a growl of gasoline and horsepower, the engine rumbling loudly as he took them to the outskirts of town and into the desert, to their favorite spot to be alone.

With his other hand, Tom began unbuttoning his collar, focused on nothing except what they were about to do, what he couldn’t wait for.

“No,” Chris whispered, grasping his wrist. “I want to do it. Please wait.”

Trembling, Tom leaned into his seat as the wind streamed over him, head rolled over to look at Chris as he drove a little faster, the street lights dropping away until it was only the moon and starlight winking over everything. Horizon tinged in pink, deep purple at the zenith, outlines of towering saguaros and hulking cactus barrels, Tom took a deep breath and felt the weight of his heart.

And then it was still and all was quiet, clouds of dust swirling around the heated car. Parked and secluded, he measured his breaths against the giant scope of the world around them and the boy at his side, bigger, taller than him, so strong. His chest jumped with shaky breaths and he reached without looking. A hand slid into his and a mouth was at his shoulder, kissing him through the stiff starch of his shirt.

“Let me see it,” he said softly, arching his neck for Chris’s searching lips.

Reaching into his pocket, Chris pulled out the shiny packet. Tom took it in his fingers, felt the squishy wetness of the condom inside. He whispered the size and Chris blushed, embarrassed and proud. Completely endeared, Tom’s chest flooded with warmth and he squeezed Chris closer, their mouths fumbling into frantic kisses. They fell into the backseat, Chris’s gym bag of workout clothes a pillow for Tom’s head.

With tender care, Chris unhooked each suspender of Tom’s uniform, the silver buckles cracking against the interior side of the car. Each button carefully undone as Tom breathed in and out. His hat was gone, crushed on the floor somewhere, his crisp white shirt following after. Chest bare, he tugged at Chris’s soft cotton baseball shirt, the hard muscles of his abdomen appearing underneath, clenching as he moved and breathed.

Tom gave a small whimper, hands sliding up the flat stomach to clutch shakily at Chris’s chest. They grinned and kissed, noses bumping, legs tangling, Chris’s fingers dark at his waist. Toeing off their shoes, each grabbed at the other. Chris snapped open Tom’s white trousers, jerking the zipper down, reaching in. Tom pushed at the elastic band of Chris’s gym shorts, heat roiling in him as his hand curved over his rounded bottom, plenty to grab.

“Shit, where is it?”

“I thought you had it.”

“Maybe it’s in the front—.”

“Look in my seat.”

“Found it.”

“God, I was going to scream if we’d lost it.”

They erupted in giggles, their bodies cramped together, pressed so tightly. And then it was rougher, impatient kisses, teeth and tongues, clothes just barely off, their bellies flush. Hard and straining, their groins brushed and twitched, the soft tickle of hair.

Keeping an arm under Tom’s neck, Chris tore open the tinfoil packet. Together, they rolled it over his erection, fingers scrambling.

“Pinch it.”

“Pinch it?”

“Yeah. At the top. It’s something I read you should do?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just—.”

“Okay, babe. Okay.”

With Chris’s shirt hanging limp around his neck, Tom’s trousers and briefs from one of his ankles, they fell back into their desperate kissing with moans and sighs. Nudging at his entrance, Chris stared down at Tom and held him tightly with shaky hands, his hips vibrating.

The condom was lubricated, but there was a small terror in Tom’s heart. He licked his lips, fingers clawed into the small of Chris’s back.

“It will hurt, won’t it?”

Eyes half-lidded, Chris hesitated. “I think so.”

“Go slow. Please.”

Nodding fast, Chris eased his weight down over Tom, both arms wrapped under his head as he left moist kisses on Tom’s cheeks. Completely engulfed, Tom stared up at the ceiling as Chris circled his hips, gently prodding. The head of his cock felt huge and spongy against his soft flesh. He winced at Chris’s shoving but widened his legs and squirmed an arm down to pull a cheek to the side. 

Chris breached, and they froze.

Inside his chest, Tom’s heart was a wild prism, his foot crooked under the back window, Chris’s breaths gusting harshly at his neck. He felt wet where Chris pushed into him, a short inch only, but the lube from the condom was helping.

“Keep going,” he ground out, eyes squeezed shut.

“You’re really tight.” Chris’s voice was ragged and dry, splintering at the end. “I’ll hurt you.”

“I’m okay. I promise. Keep going.”

Gritted teeth, shaking limbs, they went. On the second push, Tom cried out, broken, small. The pain was sharp and immediate, and Chris pulled back, eyes afraid.

“No,” Tom sobbed, clinging to him, dragging him back down. “Don’t stop. Slow. Go slow.”

They waited there for a hundred long heartbeats, their gasps deepening, mouths lazy on each other as Tom grew used to the heavy length trying to penetrate. The next thrust was softer, gentler, and Chris slid in almost entirely.

“Fuck,” Chris whispered, eyes sinking closed. Tom lay in his arms, wound tight as a wire, and said nothing. He couldn’t. All words evaporated at the robust feeling of Chris inside him. His own cock was still full and aching, crushed between their bodies, but every firing spark of feeling inside him was centered on where he and Chris were joined, and how very small he felt there. How very big Chris was. How with every breath Chris took, he widened impossibly.

Pinpricks of light glowed into view, and the car ceiling was a starry sky he gazed at with wonder.

“Breathe, Tom…dammit, _please_.”

Tom blinked, throat clenched shut, panic beginning to whisper along his veins. And with a terrible shudder, teeth clamped, Chris pushed in the final inch and Tom’s lungs exploded.

He sucked in a great breath, Chris’s cock nestled snuggly somewhere under his ribcage, and Chris moaned at seeing him so revived, so flushed with color, that he started thrusting in earnest, pure insistent instinct. Out and in, Tom rocked beneath him and heard the noises he made, the whispers, the way they mirrored desperation and pain, the crushing rush of tender pleasure just beginning to flare.

“Yes,” he heard. “Yes, again.” His own raw voice, begging. He blinked back the tears of pain that had started to recede, his entrance sore but opened now, eclipsed entirely by the bucking boy on top of him.

“Feel so good,” Chris gasped, almost inaudibly. Sweat had sprouted along his back, dotted the creased line of his dark brow. The line of hair from his bellybutton to groin made Tom’s cock pulse and swell, anxious for better footing to roll his hips up and into Chris’s thrusts. This wasn’t the tight sheath of his hand under the covers, the sloppy mess of quick tugging in the shower; this was the heavy weight of another body, filling him over and over, smooth belly stroking Tom’s length until he knew, could feel, he would come.

And Chris, whose eyes had gone hazy, mouth slack, wouldn’t last much longer. His hips snapped forward, aggressive, rough. It was this that tipped Tom over the edge, Chris so unhinged, unchecked in his pursuit of pleasure from Tom’s body. Two more strokes and Tom was arching up, his fingernails digging into firm buttocks. He felt the hard clench at his core and then burning liquid stripping his neck, pooling at his chest. His cock throbbed and jerked between their bellies, leaking. The pleasure that burned through him blinded his eyes, snuffed out all sound, reduced him to stuttered breaths.

Face scrunching, Chris stayed his hips after a final, deep thrust, Tom’s entrance too tight to move in. A second later, his eyes rolled up and he was coming, his cock jumping and swelling inside him.

Slowly, Tom’s spine went soft and he unclenched, his orgasm fading into a sublime sort of haze, a silky shroud over his eyes he could barely see Chris through. He collapsed back against the sweaty seat, Chris shuddering above him.

Chests heaving, their eyes slid to each other and they gazed without blinking. Dipping his head down, Chris pressed his lips to Tom’s, a strong, steady kiss full of promise. Tears rose in Tom’s eyes and he wrapped Chris closer, deepening the embrace.

After, they sat up and caught their breath. Chris removed his condom and shoved it into an empty takeout bag to throw away later. A wave of drowsiness and fatigue billowed over Tom and he needed help with the buttons on his shirt, leaving it untucked after managing to pull up his pants.

“Are you okay?” Chris asked, taking his hands. Concern tilted down the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah. I just…don’t think I can keep my eyes open for much longer.” Fatigue slammed in to him. His bottom hurt, too, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Chris, though, was absorbing every thought on his face.

“Let me get you home.”

He pushed forward the passenger seat and opened the door. Crawling out first, he reached back to help Tom, who winced at his stretching muscles.

“Babe,” Chris said in a hurry. He pulled Tom to his feet and cupped his face. “I hurt you.”

“I’m okay. Just sore. I expected that.”

Sighing, Chris hugged him tightly and then righted the front seat. Trying not to flinch, Tom slid in. Chris slammed the door and then ran around the front to the driver’s side.

Tom sat there and decided he wouldn’t tolerate how uncomfortable it was, not even for the fifteen minutes it would take to get home. Lethargy was making his eyelids heavy. Once Chris was behind the wheel and the engine roared to life, Tom maneuvered himself very gingerly until he was lying on his side across the front seat, his head on Chris’s thigh.

Looking down at him, Chris touched his neck briefly, softly, before moving his hand to the gearshift and reversing from the small circle of desert they liked to call their own. The night was black, the moon waning from full to something less. With his eyes closed, Tom was slowly lulled into a blissful stupor, Chris’s arm resting on his waist, moving slightly only to shift gears. Sleep must have taken him for a short time because he couldn’t remember anything after bumping through the desert until brakes squealed and Chris was parking in front of his house. The porch light was on but the driveway was empty.

“Where’s your dad?” Chris whispered, eyes on the front door.

“Mm. Probably with Emilia. He said something about dinner…or something.” He was mumbling, struggling to wake up, to remember the text his father had sent him while he was at work.

“Babe,” Chris said, a smile in his voice. “You won’t make it up the drive.”

“I can,” Tom slurred.

It took Chris helping him not only up the drive, but through the door and up the stairs to his room. Very carefully, he eased Tom’s weight down on the bed and then helped remove his unlaced shoes. The clock on the bedside drawer read 9:06PM.

“Are you…you okay?” Tom whispered, reaching for Chris like a drunk.

Chris sniffed a small laugh. “You’re a cheap date.”

Tom shrugged. “Dopamine is currently having a field day in my body right now. Looks like you’re outlined in gold glitter.”

“I like you all the time, babe, but I super like you like this.” He nuzzled his nose to Tom’s cheek and Tom giggled quietly, eyes closing again.

“Can I come over tomorrow?”

“Oh, yes please.”

“Do you work?”

“Yes, but not til two.”

“I’ll call you.”

“’kay.”

He left Tom sprawled face down on the sheets, looking ravaged and beautiful in the dim light coming in through his window. And Tom slept, deeply and long. He roused an hour or so later when his dad peeked into his room to announce he was home. Tom grunted and was back asleep in moments. It was just before dawn when his bladder woke him and he stumbled into the bathroom and took an irresponsibly long shower, washing himself with a sluggish ease, feeling the ache wherever Chris had touched him. He fell back into bed again after, naked under the sheets.

Faintly, his phone rattled somewhere. Something cracked against his window, but he slept through that too.

Hours later, his door creaked open. Beside him, the bed sagged down and then a hand was on his cheek. Tom blinked himself awake, startling slightly at the large figure leaning over him.

“Jesus, Tom, I thought I’d killed you.”

The voice was the most familiar warmth and tone. The blurry figure fizzled into view and there Chris was, solid and lovely. He seemed a little gray in the face, but Tom wondered if that was a trick of the dim light in his room.

“Hey,” Tom smiled, his voice like crushed rubble.

“Hey, yourself. You didn’t answer my calls. Or my rocks. It’s one thirty.”

The comfortable shroud of fatigue and laziness suddenly evaporated and he sat up quickly, gasping at the sharp pain he felt in his bottom.

Chris took his arms. “Slow down. You have time. I can drive you.”

“How did you get in?”

“Found your spare key under the ninetieth pot I checked under.”

“Is my dad gone?”

“I think so.”

Tom laughed quietly. “So brave coming in here not sure of that.”

“I was worried.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I was exhausted.”

Chris smirked. “Well, I’m flattered.”

Leaning into him, Tom murmured, “You exhausted me. You took everything right out of me.”

Lips strayed from his temple down to his neck, and they moaned, moving closer.

Curious hands slipped lower on his hips, past the sheets bunched around Tom’s waist. “Are you naked under here?”

“Oops. Yeah.”

“Ok, then.” Moving determinedly, Chris eased Tom back down and, barely protesting, Tom let him. Throwing the sheets aside, Chris stared down at his body, eyes hungry on his sleepy skin, the lean muscles of his legs. His whisper tickled the hair on Tom’s thighs, face burning the closer Chris came to his groin.

“God…” He covered his face in the crook of his arm, knees tight together, shaking. But big, warm hands slid up his flanks and his breath stuttered out of him, muscles loosening. Under the fringe of his eyelashes, he saw Chris graze the tip of his nose up the soft skin of his thigh, open-mouth kisses moist and tickling like butterfly wings. Dropping his arms, he lay still and quiet, fingers hovering over the sheets.

When he looked up at him, Chris’s eyes were dark and hooded, jaw falling slowly open. And then, with the soft shuttering of lashes, he dipped his head down between his legs and buried his face in Tom’s groin. There, in the tender crook, as if he’d never known such a craving before and was discovering a long forbidden treasure, he took a deep breath through his nose.

Lungs frozen, Tom could only stare as Chris smelled him, exhaling slowly, inhaling again deeply, hands grasping Tom’s hips, gripping hard. It was Chris’s broken moan that bubbled heat over Tom’s cheeks. Blue eyes flicked up to meet his, and his legs dropped open. He reached for him and they fell into each other’s arms, kissing again and again, limbs tangling, hands clawing into hair, fingers curling to bruise.

“You’re dirty,” Tom gasped and Chris nodded vigorously.

“I won’t deny it. I love how you smell. I love everything.”

“Show me again later.” His voice was heavy with regret. “But I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I won’t forget.”

He gave him one last hard kiss and dragged him up.

Tom wasn’t completely dressed by the time they ran down the stairs and out the front door. Into the car, driving away. Doing the last few buttons at his collar, he was hitching on his blue suspenders when he noticed Chris turn the wrong way.

“Where are you going?” he said, fumbling with the metal clasp.

“What?”

“You turned on Clover. You were supposed to go straight.”

“School’s on Clover, babe.”

Tom stopped with his fumbling and sat back. He looked at Chris. “You think we’re going to school?” He didn’t bother mentioning it was July.

But Chris caught the careful note in his voice and glanced over, once. His eyes were narrowed and unfocused, deep in his mind. “What?” he said again, an edge of aggression lining the word.

“School’s out for the summer,” Tom said softly. “I have to go to work.”

A tense moment passed, Chris shifting in the growing silence. Jaw tight, eyes like slits, he looked everywhere but at Tom, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Without a word, he signaled on the next street and turned, wheels squealing. Biting his lip, Tom remained quiet. But when Chris stretched his arm on the seat, hand open, Tom took it without hesitation, squeezing his fingers, cradling it. Chris was shaking, and this on top of everything cracked something open inside Tom’s chest.

At the ice cream parlor, they kissed four, five times, Chris’s eyes wet but resolute. Tom hated to go, wanted to stay and maybe talk about what had just happened, why Chris thought they were going to school instead of Tom’s job, and why he’d been so upset to realize it. Tom didn’t think it was a forgetful force of habit, brought on in a moment of wistful or distracted daydreaming. But he was two minutes late and couldn’t miss this shift. He knew, too, that Chris would shut down if he tried prying. It was too big, whatever this was; he couldn’t put his mind around it.

He watched from the front door as Chris put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, giving a flick of his hand in farewell.

Inside the storage room basement, he found a box of new paper hats and put one on, already dreading the next few hours of forcing a smile and serving ice cream to jumping children and grinning couples. His heart wasn’t in it today, not when he felt it stretch thinner and thinner the further Chris drove away.

**

_I almost fell down the stairs today. Waking up and missing him right away, I was happy to shower and get dressed and head over. But when he didn’t answer or respond to the pebbles I tossed at his window, there was a moment where I thought he might hate me, might regret what we did. But it didn’t make sense. Not with how happy he seemed, how affectionate he’d been with me. I had to fight the thoughts that insisted he wanted nothing to do with me, that I imagined it all. So I waited, calling every hour, tossing a baseball into the air, hopping the wall and watching out for his dad. He must have left one of the times I was in my room because I never saw him. The closer it got to one thirty, the more worried I became. So I grabbed my keys and headed for the stairs. But two steps down, dizziness hit me like a hammer and I stumbled, foot shooting right out from under me. I reached blindly for the bannister, panicked. My vision spun so badly I couldn’t tell up from down. I remember sobbing out loud, once, and closing my eyes, sinking to the floor, covering my head with both arms._

_It eventually went away, my eyes settling. There was the ceiling, here was the floor, and I was sprawled on it. I got up with a groan, my stomach still queasy, but I finally made it down and out the door, wondering if I’d just had a weird allergic reaction to something. It didn’t matter now. I was okay, and I had to get to him. He’d be late…for something. He’d be late – we’d be late? – but I could take him. I would. I’d do anything for him._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the last image in [this](http://half-ancient.tumblr.com/post/148649177783) link. It's what inspired the black jeans on the bed scene.

Tom:

It hurt him to think it, but he wondered if Chris wouldn’t be waiting to pick him up after his shift. Would he forget, like he’d forgotten other things lately? Scrubbing his hands and arms in the back room, soap suds and warm water splashing in the decades’ old stainless steel basin, the sticky residue of ice cream slowly fell away. If only his worry were as easy to dissolve.

Passing along the reins of command over to Derek, a senior at his high school, Tom tore off his hat and pushed out into the scorching afternoon. Fiery winds gusted through the parking lot and he squinted his eyes, looking through the dusty air. There in the stringy shade of a mesquite tree, was Chris’s car. Relief popped happily through him, and he jogged over.

“Of course I’d be here,” was all Chris said when Tom climbed in. The skin around his eyes was a little tight, cautious, even as he took Tom’s hand.

Tom gave a small sigh and embraced him across the seat. “Are you okay? I thought of you all day.”

“I’m okay. I was pissed earlier. But I ran scrimmage with the guys. Got it all out.” Looking at him closely now, Tom saw the red dirt streaked on his workout clothes, spotted on his neck. Saw the red tinge to the bones of face, burned by the sun.

“Why don’t you wear sunscreen?”

“I do!”

“You’re still a little red,” he said, grazing a thumb over Chris’s cheek.

“I had a good practice,” Chris said, shrugging. He moved to start the car.

Buckling in, Tom tossed his hat to the side. “When’s your first game?”

“Next week. Tuesday. Will you come?”

Tom tossed his head back, teeth glinting in the sun, peak of tongue. “Will I come? In more ways than one, I suppose.”

Grinning, Chris winked at him and revved the engine, and took them home.

**

“There’s something…different about you.”

His dad peered at him over the rim of his glass, condensation dripping to the table.

Tom nudged his arm down with his fork. “Stop that. You’re making a mess. And I don’t know what you mean. I’m the same.”

His dad shrugged and poked at his pasta. “Can’t pinpoint it. There’s something. Guess it’s that boyfriend of yours, huh?”

In spite of himself, Tom blushed. And then, irritated, he stabbed a tomato and tossed it into his mouth.

“I should meet this boy now,” his dad was saying. “More formally. Seems it’s getting serious.”

“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Tom said, chewing. “It’s not like I can get pregnant.”

The slice of sausage on his dad’s fork fell back to his plate when he jerked to complete stillness. “Are you guys…?”

Red-faced, Tom grimaced and nodded into his pasta.

Blinking quickly, his dad put his fork down, and blew out a slow breath.  “Well. I always knew this day would come, but – nothing can quite prepare you.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom whispered, voice trembling a little.

“No. I didn’t mean – you don’t have to be sorry. I mean, you’re being careful, right? You’re being responsible?”

Lifting his eyes, Tom nodded faster. “Yes. We used a condom. We were careful.”

“Okay.” He moved his pasta around a bit more. “I mean. You guys are young. Not like there’s a high chance – if any – of having anything that’s catching, but it’s better to be safe.”

They ate their dinner in silence for a few minutes, his eyes flitting up to him like he thought Tom would evaporate into thin air. Tom kicked him gently under the table.

“I’m okay, dad. I promise. He’s really –.”

“Nooope, nope, don’t wanna know.”

Tom laughed, his appetite back again. “—nice. I was going to say he’s really nice. Plus he’s super athletic and likes my lip ring.”

“I bet he does,” his dad muttered.

“And he’s funny. So strong and protective—.”

 “So dangerous around here.”

Tom kicked him again, harder this time. “He stopped two bullies from kicking my ass in the boy’s bathroom.”

The teasing tone was gone from his dad’s voice. “Wait, what?”

Shoveling pasta into his mouth, he shrugged. “Yeah. These two boys always try to catch me alone and they almost succeeded this one time but Chris stopped them.”

“Tom, do people bully you at school?”

Tom gave him a look like, _really_?

Incredulity soaked his father’s grave face. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry. You’re such a great kid. Everyone should see that.”

“Chris does,” he said softly.

“Yeah.” Smiling, his dad touched his arm. “I’m really happy he does.”

Tom smiled, grateful, and they finished their dinner quietly. After the dishes were washed and dried, his dad hugged him before retiring to bed. “Bring him over one of these weekends. We’ll cook out. Steaks? Burgers?”

Grinning, Tom flipped off the lights to the living room. “Anything would be great. He eats like a horse.”

“Great, a giant boy who eats like a horse is dating my son. Just perfect.”

Tom hugged him around the waist, both climbing the stairs. “Oh hush, old man. I don’t pick them for nothing.”

**

Chris’s first game was at night. He wouldn’t be able to get Tom from work because the team had to report early to the field, so Tom drove himself and headed to the park right after his shift. The day’s heat was dissipating by the hour, cool breezes picking up. It would be chilly by midnight, but the air was pleasant just after sunset. The field lights were on, halos of illumination Tom spotted from several miles out. The parking lot wasn’t nearly full, but all of the spaces near the lit baseball diamond were taken. Tom parked his car in the last space of the second row and jumped out.

He’d changed clothes at the ice cream parlor. Instead of the eyesore that was his white uniform and baby blue suspenders, he wore a pair of faded, fitted black jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. His black Converse were scuffed and likely to be dusty by the end of the night, but he didn’t care. He was so excited to see Chris playing again after so long. The regular season had ended mid-spring and he’d missed sneaking close to the bleachers to watch the varsity team play, watch Chris hold command of the game so well. He didn’t understand most of what was going on, but that hardly mattered.

Passing a food truck parked behind the bleachers, the aromas of popcorn and hot dogs and melted candy wafted over him as he climbed onto the lowest bleacher seat just behind the home team. Through the metal chain-link fence he watched the players tie on cleats and wipe down gloves, pull on sweat-stained caps. Chris sat alone at the end of the bench, strapping on his catcher’s gear, the bulky pads that would protect from most of the stray balls that struck dirt and ricocheted wildly into his body. Shin guards, chest protector, steel cage helmet. He still suffered blows, despite it all. Tom always discovered a new, blackening bruise, tender to his touch. All the gear served to hide Chris from him, eyes narrowed through the steel bars of his face mask, observing every move of every player, maintaining the pace of the game, calming down his pitcher, focused on both friend and foe. Fingers between his legs signing secret signals, flicking eyes to his coach, awaiting instruction.

It made him all the more attractive to Tom, the patience, the controlled violence just underneath it all, waiting. When, with but a burst of movement, Chris would be on his feet and launching a throw to second to get the stealing player out, or fielding a wild pitch and facing off with the runner on third already bulldozing toward him, squatting into position, protecting home plate.

Tom would watch it all with bated breath, admiring the terrible strength of Chris’s body, enamored and desirous of him. And now he was all his, Chris’s hickeys still throbbing just beneath his shirt.

Rising to his feet, Chris followed his teammates onto the field, cleats spiking into the soft red dirt. He was taller than the umpire already standing behind the plate, and they exchanged a few words as both teams lined up along first and third base. Glove under his arm, Chris stood with the opposing catcher as a woman in a flowing purple dress took the microphone set up on the pitcher’s mound.

Everyone rose for the national anthem. She sang very nicely, not overdoing it, her long brown hair swishing softly at her lower back as the wind picked up slightly. Tom watched Chris, eyes straying down his long body, admiring the way his uniform fit along his strong legs. The woman’s voice rose to a smooth finale and the crowd burst into applause and high whistles.

And as if he could feel him staring, Chris turned and looked right at him. Tom’s cheeks flamed immediately, and it pleased Chris, making him grin. Winking at him sweetly, Chris held his gaze for a moment longer – pinning Tom in place and making him squirm – before slinging on his helmet and face mask.

The game started off slowly, as usual, nine defenders to every single opposing batter. Chris squatted behind home plate, the umpire hunched over behind him, catching pitch after pitch, guiding the pitcher and controlling the pace. During the seventh inning stretch, Tom jogged over to the food truck and bought a soda and small popcorn, wandering up to where Chris’s team sat.

“How am I doing?” Chris said, fingers poking through the diamond-shaped pattern of the fence.

“So hot,” Tom whispered, and pushed a piece of popcorn into Chris’s dirty, curled fingers. Mischief lit up in Chris’s eyes and he slid his gaze down Tom’s body.

“These are my favorite jeans on you.” His nose bumped against the metal, as close as he could get. “And off.”

“Dirty boy,” Tom smirked, and let Chris flick his lip ring with a grubby finger.

The game started up again and Tom retreated to his seat. The air cooled the later it got and by the time the final score was called the night sky was entirely black and most of the families had gone home. Chris was eager to be alone, still on a high from winning the game. He shed off most of his heavier gear and collected his bag before finding Tom behind the food truck and bending to smell the skin behind his ear.

“You brought your car?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, because I got a ride with Sammy but I’ll go home with you.”

Arm in arm, they walked through the lot to where Tom’s car was parked. Inside, Chris pulled him close and kissed him hard, his tongue pushing into Tom’s mouth, sweet berry Gatorade.

“Come over?” Chris asked, mouthing at his neck.

“Your mom?”

“Working late. It’s why she wasn’t here. I can’t wait for her to meet you. But later. Right now, come over?”

Tom snickered and nodded yes. As they drove, Chris switched out his cleats for regular running shoes. Back in their neighborhood, Tom turned down Flora and parked his car behind Chris’s green Civic. They hurried into the darkened house and up the stairs. Dropping his stuff on the floor on his bedroom, Chris waved to the hall. “I’m just going to shower—.”

“No,” Tom whispered and grabbed him by his damp shirt.

“But I’m all dirty.”

“I don’t care. Come here.”

Kicking blindly at the door until it slammed shut, Chris let Tom tug him to the bed, their kisses tiny smacks of light. Flopping down to the edge, Tom stared up at Chris and smiled. Bent at the waist to keep their mouths pressed together, Chris tugged at Tom’s shirt and yanked it right off. It landed with a rustle somewhere in the dark. Gently, he pressed Tom back until he was lying flat on the sheets and then, kneeling at his feet, slid both hands up the soft material of Tom’s jeans. He took hold of his hips, cheek resting on the slope of his knee, looking at him.

In the pale light from the window, his face was bleached white, his eyes black, framed with curled spider-web lashes. He crept closer to Tom’s core, eyeing the bulge between his legs, mere inches from the tip of his nose. Shallow gasps, long hands poised and frozen on the bed, Tom waited. He could feel Chris’s warm, moist breaths seeping through his jeans, and he angled his hips up, wanting. And as softly as he could, Chris pressed his face against the curve of Tom’s cock, sucking in a deep breath, blowing it out and digging his nose in deeper.

Tom’s legs widened and his spine arched up a fraction, a moan building in his chest, vibrating there. A big hand whispered over the dip of his belly button, slid roughly across the bones of his ribs and over his peaked nipple, reached to circle Tom’s long neck, fingers wrapping around the long tendons.

“Chris…” he moaned, growing harder against where Chris mouthed at him, an insistent thumb massaging his balls, spiking his pulse and drowning him in heat. He felt flushed, lit aflame. His hand dragged through the sheets to palm lazily at Chris’s head, holding him there. With his other hand, Chris popped the button of Tom’s jeans, tugged low the zipper. He moved away only long enough to grasp the edge of his pants and pull them down, boxers and all. He left the material bunched at Tom’s knees, eyes locked on Tom’s growing erection, balls heavy just beneath. He said nothing, only dipped low again and closed his mouth over the sensitive sac, moaning at the scent, the soft give of his flesh, the light brown hairs gathered there. He smiled when Tom’s cock throbbed against his cheek, shifting on its own. Overcome, Tom hid his face behind both hands. A moment later, Chris took him into his mouth, sliding down and up.

Gasping, Tom arched again, his moan broken and desperate. Held there by the shock, by the immense pleasure building in him, by the wet heat he was falling into, Tom strained at the ceiling, dots spotting his vision.

Stroking him again, once more, Chris squeezed him at the tip and then let him fall wetly from his lips. Mumbling in protest, Tom reached for him, shaking. But Chris was searching the floor for his bag, rummaging through it.

“Don’t…don’t leave me,” Tom whispered, afraid he would float up into the atmosphere without Chris to weigh him down, to keep him. When Chris reappeared over him, Tom grasped his arms. “Please.”

“I’m here.” Chris’s voice was a rasp, barely audible. He fumbled with the condom he’d packed in his bag, rolled it on, pinched the top. The sight of him in his dirt-streaked uniform, fully clothed except for the gap in his pants where his cock stuck out, had Tom’s blood thrumming through him.

Moving quickly, Chris uncapped a small container and dipped his fingers in.

“What is that?”

“It’ll help with the pain.”

Sliding his arm under Tom’s waist, he flipped him onto his stomach and held a hand flat to the small of his back. Exposed like this, Tom squirmed and tried to plant his feet on the floor, but his jeans were twisted mid-thigh and the toes of his sneakers only just grazed the carpet. Chris’s fingers slipped between his cheeks, smearing something slick along his entrance, prodding gently. When his finger pushed in, Tom hissed and rolled his hips, feeling anchored under the weight of Chris’s hand and adoring the implication. Here was the boy he’d wanted for so long, whose teeth he had craved, whose lashes he had memorized, whose body and spirit awakened his own. And by the stuttered breaths behind him, Chris felt the same. It was enough to wedge a burning sun under Tom’s ribcage, blinded by the light of every heartbeat, the pulsing warmth of every flare. Panting into the mattress, he held still, hands curling into the sheets. He tilted his bottom up, his cock pulsing where it lay trapped, and Chris squeezed in another finger.

He worked him open this way, rough fingers and growled breaths, stretching him just enough. And then he slicked himself quickly and pushed in.

Tight. So tight. Teeth clenched, Tom held in his sob, felt Chris’s hand on his bottom, pulling to the side. Deeper now, stretched, to the brim. Beneath him, his cock twitched eagerly.

Seated completely, Chris exhaled a groan and waited a moment. And then so softly, he murmured his name and pulled out.

Tom’s cry was soft when he thrust back in, but the slicked wetness helped the burn and he angled himself for more.

“Yeah, babe,” Chris gasped, grasping Tom by the back of the neck, his other hand at Tom’s hip. The harder he thrust in, the more Tom bounced and squirmed. From where he lay prone, head twisted to the side, he suddenly saw himself in the mirror anchored to Chris’s closet door. Pinned beneath this giant boy, held down, jeans twisted, legs splayed helplessly, Tom’s blood turned to pure fire, surging through him in an explosion of arousal and need. He heard himself keen, struggled to push himself up, whispered to please _fuck him_.

Snapping him up by his hips, Chris positioned him on his hands on knees. Gripping his waist, his other arm locked around the front of Tom’s neck, Chris dug in faster, harder. Their flesh smacked lewdly, the bed creaked faintly, and they moaned into their frantic kisses, moist and bruising. Bouncing obscenely against his belly, Tom’s cock was red and swollen, shining wetly at the tip. He didn’t touch himself. He clung to Chris and looked at their reflection in the mirror; how depraved and hungry they seemed, Chris hunched over as ravenous as a bear, and it was their straining image and Chris’s thickness spearing into him that tipped him over the edge.

Balls pulsing, he clenched and bucked as he came, his cock spewing arcs of white. His eyes rolled up and he shuddered, sagging heavily in Chris’s arms. Held up like a rag doll, Chris pumped into him faster still, grunting as he came, teeth skimming the pale skin of Tom’s neck.

He eased Tom down, setting him gently on the bed. Facedown on the sheets, Tom blinked blearily and slowly caught his breath. The bed smelled of Chris, orange and salty brine. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, wincing slightly as Chris pulled out of him.

In the dark, Chris moved quietly. He disappeared into the hallway and was back a moment later with a warm towel. He wiped the back of Tom’s legs and pulled off his sneakers and jeans, shrugging up Tom’s boxers last. He then crawled onto the bed beside him.

He was still in his uniform, but his shoes were off.

“Come here, babe. Come here.”

Tom shifted closer and sighed as Chris closed his arms around him. They snuggled and fell still, settling comfortably. Chris ran his hand down Tom’s back, as big as a paddle.

“What did you use on me?” Tom asked, voice thick with sleepiness.

“Oh.” Chris huffed out a quick laugh. “I bought Vaseline at the store today.”

Tom smiled. “Why not regular lube?”

“I don’t know. They had all the sex stuff behind glass and I would have had to ask someone. So Vaseline was easiest.” Tom had to agree, still feeling slick from it.

“I wish I could have seen that,” he murmured.

“Man. The guy who rang me up looked at me like he knew I was up to no good with it. Like I was going to go home and fist myself.”

Tom gave him a squeeze and snickered.  
  
"I kinda puffed myself up and was like 'what, man?' And then he ran away."  
  
"Ah, my brave sweet gladiator." He tipped his face up and Chris leaned down, kissing slow and lazy.

“Did it help? Are you okay?”

The pleasure Chris created in him still simmered faintly. He squeezed his legs together to feel it still. “Yes,” he whispered, a finger trailing down Chris’s cheek. “It felt so good. You fucking me…like that.”

Groaning, Chris rolled half on him and nuzzled his neck. “Babe, when you say such things.”

Their cuddles turned into tickles and they became a tangle of flailing limbs and giggles, soft, soft.

After, Tom dressed and drove around the corner to his house on the next street. He showered and cleaned Vaseline and sex off of him, skimming the skin of his hip and the fresh bruises there. His dad was still out with Emilia, and he was happy things seemed to be working out between them. His mother’s exit from their lives was something that still stung, still twisted into their psyche, the wound of it unhealed after all these years. And above it all, he knew his dad still loved her, found it hard to let her go. What had her abandonment done to him, the excruciating numbness that must have followed, left alone to raise a toddler? He had a good feeling about Emilia, hoped she was what his dad needed and wanted and deserved.

Lying drowsy in the square of moonlight through his window, Tom registered a buzz from his phone. The text from Chris was a blushing face blowing a kiss, and smitten beyond anything he’d ever known, Tom responded in kind and fell asleep with his phone curled into his chest.

**

_I feel myself slipping sometimes, in my head. And it’s a very sneaky kind of sensation, setting in when I least expect. I’m staring at something one moment, concentrating, aware, and then a bubble of time passes and I won’t remember what I was doing. It’s already happened during practice, coach signaling me with the next play and then I’ll signal the pitcher and short stop and then – I won’t remember what I signed. Trying not to panic, I’ll lean into my squat and wait for the pitch I just requested that I can now not even recall. I recover pretty quickly, keeping my wrist loose and tracking the ball for a clean catch, but some do go wild. We all brush these off to the angle of an elbow or a shifting air current. But I know better. And I think I’m starting to worry._

_Tom makes me forget things in the best way. He’s so sweet, I can’t explain how much that means to me. I lose myself in him, in his words, in his laugh, in the small way he touches me, in the big ways we lets me touch him. Every time I see him I discover something new that I adore. The small freckles in his ear shell, the tiny gap in his front teeth that is just barely there, that damn lip ring, how small his wrists are, how responsive his body is to mine. Hugging him is like knowing what you hold is as breakable as a sunflower, his chin propped daintily on my shoulder, my arms anchoring him to me, swaying sweetly with me. The way he gasps when I bite his neck. I love when he arches into me. When I thrust, when I bite, he wants to be closer, clings and moans. I’ve never known an attachment like this._

_He delights me. As he breathes, I am enchanted._

_Thoughts of him are always with me, made all the stronger when I can finally get my hands on him. That small, playful smile, his curious fine-boned fingers, those tight jeans. Seeing him on my bed nearly undid me; all I want to do is put my face right between those legs and just breathe in. Want to run my hands up the smooth belly of the boy I am starting to see as pure light. Feel the breath through his trembling chest, slink my fingers around his pale neck, to cup there, simply. The black jeans snug on that tiny waist, those small boy hips. A pop of a button, the drag of metal teeth, unhooking, and then I could see him. To play and tease him. To make him arch up like that, seeking my skimming fingers, to steal all reason from him. Tom, with his long hands and shy glances._

_That he is mine, I can’t fathom. It’s something I could never forget._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for seizure.

Tom:

He had just hopped over the wall between their houses and was wiping the gravelly bits from his hands when he felt Chris loom up behind him. He loved when Chris did that, used his height to corral him against wherever he could, a wall, the car, a door, the bed.

Now was no different, stepping up from where he was waiting, leaning closer, dipping his nose into Tom’s hair and inhaling. Tom froze when he pushed deeper, stumbling them up against the cold bricks and just smelling him. Holding still, palms flat on the wall, Tom angled his hips back a fraction. Bracketing him in, Chris crowded and enveloped him, so big, an arm inching over Tom’s belly and hauling him close. And when his nose slid down the back of Tom's neck, sensitive and tender, the soft blond hairs at his nape rose in pleasure, tipping his head sideways to give him more room.

“Hello, little peach,” he whispered, dragging his mouth behind Tom’s ear and kissing the pebbled flesh.

Tom squeaked when his teeth dug in, his arm reaching back to touch Chris’s hip.

“Hello yourself. What are you doing waiting in the shadows to sneak up on me?” His laugh was breathy, skin heating fast beneath roaming lips and the midday sun.

“Couldn’t help myself. I need to grab you up. Keep you for myself.”

“Ah, an ambush. I stand no chance.”

“None,” Chris grunted, rubbing himself on Tom’s bottom.

“Help someone. Please,” he whispered, giggling quietly when Chris crushed him into the wall, air harder to breathe, dust from the red bricks scattered on his shirt.

“No one around to hear you, little peach.”

“Mmm, please let me go, mister.”

“Oh?” he smiled, dragging his arm down and cupping Tom roughly. “Want me to let you go?”

Tom jerked and sank back against him, groin tightening. “Nooo, please don’t. I’ll be good.”

Chris spun him and attacked his neck with growls, both laughing under the lacey shadows from the dark green canopies of the towering garden.

“I really can’t get enough of you,” Chris murmured into his skin, arms locked around Tom’s back. He hitched him up so that Tom’s toes skimmed the ground and nuzzled their noses together.

“I can keep you, then?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, and they grinned.

“What time is the movie?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Oh,” Tom said, winking. “We should go then.” He took Chris’s hand and tugged him toward the house.

“But—,” Chris started, eyes fastened on Tom’s faded jeans.

“After. I think I’ll like making you wait.”

There was a disgruntled groan behind him, and he laughed.

The movie was enjoyable, but not so much as the burning furnace that was Chris beside him. First it was his hand, clasped firmly around Tom’s. And then it was his foot, hooked over Tom’s ankle. And then his arm, draped over his shoulders; his lips soft at his temple, gliding past his ear, nibbling at his neck.

Pulling away gently, Tom hooked their arms together and leaned on his shoulder. Huffing out a sigh, Chris behaved for a solid two minutes before he slipped his nose into Tom’s curls, whispering just how much he wanted Tom alone right that moment. Face red, Tom squirmed and crossed his legs, lifting Chris’s hand and promptly biting his thumb. Eyes widening, Chris contained his gasp of pain and snatched his hand away, peeved at Tom’s silent mirth. But then he grabbed him by the neck and smashed their lips together. Squeal caught in his throat, Tom fisted his hands in Chris’s shirt and hauled him closer. It would have been embarrassing, this spectacle, but they were alone on the top row, the projector flickering through its endless rotations in the room just above them, the other movie watchers below them none the wiser.

Something loud happened on screen, a car crash, explosions, and Chris’s eyes sparkled with flame. Damning it all, Tom took his hand and hauled him to his feet. They ran down the stairs and through the lobby, out of the front doors. An enormous gust of heat swept over them, the late afternoon sun setting the pavement broiling. Sweat slicked on their palms, dotted their foreheads. They hurried on.

“Is your dad working?”

“Yes,” Tom managed, breathless, running to keep up with Chris’s long strides.

“Good.”

He pulled into the parking lot of a CVS and adjusted himself before getting out, already reaching for his wallet.

Breathing shallowly, Tom watched him go, trying to ignore the urge to touch himself. His hand hovered on his inner thigh, and just its nearness set another ache pulsing through him. The power emanating from Chris, the promise in his narrowed eyes, it set Tom to shaking, set his teeth on edge, bones to liquid.

When Chris returned a minute later, he passed a bag to Tom and set his hand on Tom’s thigh. Grasping it with his own, Tom held it to him as Chris buckled in. Lashes fluttering low, Chris set his jaw and took his hand back to shift gears. Despairing at the loss of contact, Tom cupped his hand over the crook of Chris’s elbow and held him there, the hard bulge of bicep.

“I’m…” But he swallowed, turning to look out the window.

“I know,” Chris whispered, driving them home.

Their passion that afternoon was unequaled. Their fucking was at times rough, at times so soft it had tears brimming in Tom’s eyes, snarls in Chris’s throat. It had teeth and finger-bruises, open-mouth kisses and hair pulling. Tom cried his name, Chris moaned his. Hips snapping hard, headrest knocking the wall, sheets fallen to the floor. Crescent moon nail gouges, a hickey by the rose-bud peak of a nipple.

Coming once, they fell over and heaved great breaths of air, hands trembling and tangled skin-to-skin. They dozed, naked and sticky, before Chris shifted and caught Tom’s scent, hardening, climbing over him. He tore off his old condom, about to leave for another, but mumbling and heavy with want, Tom shook his head and Chris sagged into him, slipping inside.

Steel to velvet sheath.

It was too much, he was too big, the ceiling was dotted with stars. Cleaving to him, Tom whispered praise into his ear and widened his legs, blood rushing to his skin and setting his sensitive nerves alight. Feverish with need, Chris mounted and claimed, flesh slapping flesh, the mattress twisted from its frame. Moving together was never so easy, so devastating. Tom came with a scream, his cock throbbing and leaking, twitching between their bellies. And with nothing to catch it, Chris’s come gushed into Tom’s tight heat, both falling still as he pulsed and swelled.

Tom’s near-black eyes widened, lips parting delicately, and Chris – stunned with rapture and something baser, like ownership – curled over Tom’s trembling chest and shuddered. Holding him sweetly, gently and soft, Tom cradled Chris to him and let his tears fall, long streaks down his temples, soaking into his hair. It was alarming, this thing nestled in his heart, feathered and snug, sharpened into glittering starbursts when Chris sobbed silently, shaking and tense.

“You’re everything,” Chris whispered, voice hoarse, Tom’s tears building.

They kissed each other, soft at first and then harder, tongues and scrape of teeth, salt lining their lips.

Lying clutched beneath him, he could feel every thunderous beat of Chris’s heart, their chests fused together, his breaths as if they were his own.

“What do you want in the future?” Tom asked. He could feel the tickle of eyelashes on his neck as Chris blinked.

“I wanna go to school. Play Division I baseball. You.”

“You have me.”

“I’ll keep you, then.” A pause. “What do you want?”

“I want to study art history. I want to go to a good art school.”

“Think we’ll find a school that has what you want and I want?” Chris lifted his head, cupped Tom’s cheek.

Tom smiled, feeling sticky between his legs and soaring in his heart. “We’ll find one. We’ll look. We can make it work.”

Chris’s look softened. Incredibly, Tom felt him stirring against his leg.

“You are positively herculean,” he mused as Chris settled against his pelvis, a hand on Tom’s knee.

It was slow now, and very gentle. Sore from the first two times, Tom kept the pace, a hand on Chris’s hip to ease his hurry. The swarm of hornets usually in his belly were petal-soft butterfly wings, a flurry for a storm, exhausted cock and aching limbs. Chris coaxed him into an orgasm that left him shattered and wheezing, dry pulses, nothing left to give, eyes alight and shining.

Under the wrinkled sheets, they slept. Salmon sky bruised with spots of lavender, soft breaths and loose embrace. Chris had his first day game next week and it couldn’t come at a worse time. The forecasted temperature would be in the low hundreds, but breezy, which would help. There were often two or three games going on at once during the summer leagues, and Chris had mentioned that an ambulance was usually on standby in case of heat stroke or serious injuries. As long as there was a snack truck that sold popcorn and hot dogs and snow cones, Tom would be content. And watching his catcher, of course.

Yes, of course. Held in the arms of his sweet boyfriend, he smiled in his sleep.

**

“So, next Saturday?”

“Yes, babe.”

“You’re okay with that?”

Chris finished the last straps of his protective gear and leaned into the fence. Their fingers curled into the chain link, grazing each other. “I’m okay with that. I’d love to have dinner with you and your dad. We don’t have a game that day, so I won’t be beat to shit.”

Tom bumped his knee against the fence. “My poor baby.”

They grinned at each other.

“He’s heard good things, I hope,” Chris said, squinting at him as he adjusted his glove. His eyes still looked a little puffy. The night before, he had texted Tom that he could feel a headache coming on, but that he would take some pills for the pain and go to sleep early. A little pale and drawn this morning, Chris had nevertheless greeted Tom with a smile and a kiss when he picked him up from home to drive together to his game.

“Only the best,” Tom promised, glancing behind Chris at the field beyond. It was half past twelve and the sun was a broiling orb in the clear blue sky. Heat shimmered over the red dirt, billowing over the bases, distorting where the other players stretched and tossed balls around. “Are you feeling okay?”

Chris shrugged and hooked his catcher’s mask over the top of his head, lodging it there. “I’ll fight through it. I always do. This heat is a bitch. We got plenty of Gatorade, though.”

“I’ll sneak you a snow cone during the seventh inning stretch.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He squeezed his finger and wished him good luck before taking his seat on the bleachers. He came prepared today; cushion for the burning metal, sunscreen slathered all over, frozen water bottle, and one of Chris’s baseball caps. His curls spilled out from under it but it protected his face and shielded the glare from the fierce sunlight. If Chris could make it through three hours in this heat, he would too.

Four innings in and Tom’s tongue was cherry red from the two snow cones he’d devoured. Water bottle half empty, he fanned himself with a leaflet announcing community activities, and wiped the stinging sweat from the corner of his eye. He didn’t have to see himself to know he was two shades shy of beet. Chris didn’t seem to be faring any better. Squatting behind home plate for almost two hours, his uniform was soaked at his armpits and under his protective gear. Tom couldn’t see much of his face, save for his gaze narrowed against the sun and hot wind. His team was up seven to five, pockets of encouragement shouted from the crowd. Munching on some Skittles, Tom had his eyes on Chris, tracking his movements through another inning. With two players on first and third, he was fishing for an out at second but his pitcher was throwing grapefruits in the dirt and he couldn’t recover fast enough.

The hot wind gusted through the stands, stirring up drifts of red dirt and billowing them out over the field. Gnawing on the edge of his empty snow cone cup, Tom watched Chris. Watched him sign to the pitcher, watched he and the umpire lean into their crouches, watched as the ball was launched toward him, watched Chris’s arm go slowly limp.

The ball smacked into Chris’s shoulder with a sickening crack.

The crowd let out a joined gasp, people murmuring as they craned their necks for a better look. The umpire rose and held both arms out, calling a time out. The edge of the paper cup snagged on Tom’s lip ring, but he didn’t even feel it. It fell from his hand the moment Chris staggered back from the blow, the ball rolling away harmlessly. Nobody moved for a moment, all eyes on Chris. Very slowly, he rose from his crouch to stand, weighed down by padded gear and shin guards, legs so long in his uniform. He towered over the umpire and batter, who stood back. The umpire said something to him but Chris stared dead ahead. Looking at nothing.

“What?” Tom whispered, dread blooming through him, “What is it?”

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t –

Chris’s glove dropped to the ground and then his hands – big and gentle and long-fingered – clenched into claws. Tom barely heard the choked sound Chris made as his entire body seized and then he was collapsing back, felled like a tree. The slowest descent, eyes rolling up into his head, Chris landed on his back with a terrifying thud, wrists crooked in, spine bowed up, jerking wildly on the ground.

The umpire was immediately on the move, rushing to Chris’s side as he thrashed, tearing off his helmet and mask, trying to frame his face and prevent him any injury. The coaches from both teams ran to help, the players emptying from the dugouts. Out on the stands, people were rising to their feet, hands clasped to their mouths, horrified.

Suspended in abject terror, Tom’s heart tightened painfully and he lurched forward, tripping from his seat to the dusty ground, stumbling to the fence, staring as several people crowded around Chris and tried to hold him still. They rolled him to this side and propped his chin up, his face mottled. He heard the strangest words, words that didn’t make sense, like _seizure_ and _tongue_ and _hold_ and _broken_ and _hospital_.

Moving around the back of the dugout, Tom pushed through the crowd gathered along the divider behind home plate. “Please,” he gasped, his heart near bursting. “Please let me through.”

Someone must have called the ambulance because three EMTs came on the scene, pushing through the gate and over to where Chris lay shaking, one of them dragging a rattling stretcher covered in boxes of equipment.

“Everybody back,” one of them said. They converged over him, pulling out tools and instruments Tom did not have the capacity to understand in that moment. After another long moment of shaking, Chris fell still, chest rising shallowly.

“How long was he seizing?” one of the technicians asked the coaches, holding two fingers to Chris’s neck and checking his watch. Another pulled out a pair of long silver scissors. She cut the straps to Chris’s chest protector, tossing it to the side.

“Fifteen, twenty seconds,” the umpire replied.

The technicians worked methodically, lifting each eyelid and checking pupil reactions, his temperature. The stretcher was drawn close, Chris stabilized, lifted up and carted away with scary efficiency.

“No,” Tom cried, fighting through the other onlookers and running past the bleachers. The technicians were already at the curb, folding up the stretcher’s legs and loading Chris into the back of the ambulance. Fear tripped through him at the thought of being left behind, of the questions barbing into his heart, of Chris being so alone with strangers. He broke into a run. “Wait!”

One of the EMTs was getting into the passenger seat, the remaining two jumping in the back with Chris. But the one about to close the door stopped when he shouted.

“What is it?”

"Please. Let me go with him.”

“Are you family?”

“He’s my boyfriend."

“Where are his parents?”

“His mom is working. Please. Let me go with him.” He could barely get the words out, his throat closing.

It was half a second but she must have seen something in his face, something stricken, something desperate, because she nodded quickly.  
  
"Hop on. Quick."  
  
He did as she said, wincing when the doors slammed behind him. The cabin rocked as the ambulance tore through the parking lot, siren blaring outside, but he gripped the metal shelving behind him and held on, watching with wide eyes as the technicians hooked a needle into the vein of Chris’s arm and dangled an IV above him. Amid the chaos of the technicians working over Chris, he found himself squeezing into the small space between the foot of the gurney and the double doors. One of Chris's mud splattered cleats clacked against his cheekbone, sharp and stinging. His trembling hands found their way around the only part of Chris he could reach, his ankles, socks radiating heat. He pressed his cheek to his shoe, whispering _please please please_ , gaze fastened on the rise and fall of his boyfriend’s chest. His chin quivered as he watched the technicians take Chris's vitals, monitor his seizure, speak quickly to each other in jargon he didn't understand. Lots of abbreviations and numbers, a monitor with Chris’s life readings glowing green above them. The oxygen mask over Chris’s mouth fogged with every one of his breaths.

They sped through the streets, and he thought absurdly of traffic halting in their path, cars pulling to the side of the road for the ambulance to pass. But his mind was in a spiral of panic, frantic and worried, his stomach roiling. Wake up wake up wake up.

“What’s his name?” The EMT asked, the same one who allowed him to ride with them. She glanced at him without pausing in her work.

Tom tore his gaze from Chris. He mumbled his name, hand creeping up Chris’s leg, twisting in the material of his uniform.

“And yours?”

“Tom,” he breathed, the first tears flooding his eyes, his breath catching as he clutched at Chris and sobbed quietly.

“He’s stable,” the woman said, monitoring Chris’s vitals. “Heartbeat is elevated but not dangerous.”

“What was it?” Tom asked, voice thick and breaking.

“He had a seizure. Want to tell me what you saw?”

Sitting up a bit, Tom wiped his nose and eyes, noting the smear of blood on Chris’s cleat. He touched his cheek, and his fingers came back red. “Um,” he started, swallowing and trying to focus. “It was a play like any other. The pitcher was about to throw the ball. I saw Chris lean forward to catch it, but then his arm dropped a bit. And the ball smacked into his shoulder.” The woman frowned and leaned over Chris, feeling along his collarbone. She whispered something to her partner, who nodded. “And then he stood, and then tightened up really badly. And then fell right on his back, jerking around like crazy.” He choked on a cry and covered his face, trying to breathe.

“All right, Tom. That was really helpful. Anything else you can tell us? About how Chris was acting just before the incident?”

“It was so hot. He was fine. He was normal. Sweet with me and laughing.” But then he remembered about the night before. “But…he had a headache last night. Took some pills.”

“What kind of pills?”

“I don’t know. Probably Tylenol. But, he – he’s been getting these headaches for months, since early spring maybe. And he –.” He grew quiet, fear beginning to yawn open like a pit in his stomach.

The ambulance took another turn and he saw the tall façade of the hospital loom ahead through the windshield. The IV bag swayed but held firm.

“He what, Tom?”

“He forgets things easily. And he gets these dark moods sometimes. Like he’s upset or bothered, when he was fine a little while before. Light can be too much at times. And he needs to be in a dark room.”

“You’d say his personality would change, pretty drastically?”

Tom hesitated, but then he nodded. “A bit, yeah. He isn’t like he normally is, sweet and funny and playful with me. He’s angry, and a little aggressive.”

“Toward you?”

“No. It’s outward, almost. To everyone else, the world. Really angry.”

“And then the headaches hit?”

It was a terrible thing, feeling this small. Because this is what it all led to, Chris lying on a gurney in an ambulance fighting for his life. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, eyes sliding to the vulnerable skin on the inside of Chris’s wrist, so pale, so soft. “Does any of that mean anything?”

She didn’t answer, but Tom saw the look she exchanged with her partner. And then they were pulling in to the emergency bay, and things happened so quickly. The doors were yanked open. Tom flopped out and watched from the side as Chris was lifted out and then wheeled inside. Now that their patient was being looked after by others, the EMTs moved with less urgency, straightening up inside the back of the ambulance, closing the wide double doors.

“What – what do I do?” Tom said, hands open helplessly, speaking to no one in particular. But the female EMT turned to look at him.

“They won’t let you in there with him. You’re not kin. But you can speak with one of the nurses. Tell them what you told us. I already sent the information ahead but it will help reiterating. You said his mom was working?”

“Here, actually,” Tom said, his tongue feeling too big. “She works here. She’s a custodian.”

“Give her name to the front desk. They’ll find her. Good luck, kid.” She touched his shoulder kindly and then climbed into the truck with her coworkers.

A faint trembling had set into his bones, his fingers icy cold. He shuffled into the lobby with a look of desperation about him. Half-blind with fear, he managed to find the right place, talk to the right person, give Chris’s last name, and then he was being shown to a bank of chairs to wait.

Chris was gone, carted off somewhere. He was abandoned and adrift, fear paralyzing him, tears splashing off his chin. Something vibrated in his pocket and he startled, remembering his phone. Shoving a hand into his pocket, he drew it out and wept harder at the name.

“Dad?”

“Hi, son. Listen, wanna grab some Italian food tonight? I thought since – .”

“Dad.”

His voice was shredded, soaked with tears, and his father stopped mid-sentence.

“Tom? What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

“Chris,” was all he managed before crying again.

“What’s happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! It’s him. He’s hurt.”

“Where are you?”

“At Mercy General. They took him away. I can’t see him.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“I’m in the emergency room.”

His dad hung up. Tom sank deeper into his chair, deflated, feeling ruptured. He lost track of the time, foot jangling with every horrible thought crossing his mind, of Chris on some cold metal table, seizing again, flatlining, eyes vacant.

“No,” he moaned, leaning forward and tearing at his hair. Lost in the cesspit of his head, he heard his name called and looked up to see his dad rushing into the lobby. Relief struck him and he jumped to his feet, falling into his father’s arms.

“What the hell is going on? What happened to Chris? You’re bleeding.” He grazed his thumb under the cut on Tom’s cheek.

“He had a seizure during his game. It was awful. I thought he was dying.”

“Let me go see if I can find anything out. Stay here.” He veered through the chairs and approached the nursing station where he spoke to a pale brunette, finally pointing at Tom after a long moment. Wiping at his eyes, Tom stared at her, pleading. When his father returned, he shook his head. “Wouldn’t give me much, since we’re not family. I told her you were my son and that you’re Chris’s boyfriend, that seemed to soften her up a bit. Said that Chris’s mom has been notified and that she was with him. That’s it.”

“God,” Tom breathed, sinking into his chair. “What a fucking nightmare. What do I do?”

“Sit tight, Tom. There’s nothing you can do. He’s in good hands.” His dad put his arm around Tom’s shoulders and hugged him close. Driven crazy with anxiety and need, Tom pulled out his phone and started researching seizures and possible causes. The answers were not ideal. He thought of the immediate help Chris had received on the field, from the umpire and the coaches, from the EMTs who were parked close by. What if Chris had begun seizing during one of the times they were alone together? What would Tom have done? Panicked and terrified, would he have been able to give Chris the help he needed, would he have been able to save him?

Covering his face with a hand, he started shaking again, crying silently. His dad hugged him closer, whispering that it would be okay, that Tom shouldn’t think on it. But the image of Chris convulsing on the ground, hands stiff and clawed, the white of his eyes twitching, was burned into his retinas and he wouldn’t be rid of it in a hundred years. After a while, his dad went in search of some food and coffee, and managed to convince Tom to eat a little. But it was like sand in his mouth and he declined any more. People came and went in the lobby, but he and his father remained. The sun sank beneath the horizon and darkness swelled over the lot outside, night insects scraping their legs in tinny melodies.

Near crazed with worry, Tom paced in front of the vending machines, fingers pressed to the hickey Chris had left over his left ribs. It ached with every step. He was about to retreat outside for fresh air when the double door leading into the bowels of the hospital opened gently and a woman stepped out. She was small in stature, blinking about as if lost, but there was no mistaking that this was Chris’s mom. The features were similar; wheat blond hair, soft full lips, dark widow’s peak, crystal blue eyes Tom knew so well. Her gaze passed over Tom’s father skimming through a magazine and landed gently on Tom. Something raw and shattered flitted over her face and she let the door close behind her. She took two steps toward him but Tom was already closing the distance, stopping just before her. She came up to his shoulders.

“Tom?” she whispered, and he nodded. She sighed and then reached for him. He bent to embrace her and more tears came from them both. “I recognized you from pictures he’s shown me. He’s told me so much about you. I’m so sorry we weren’t able to meet before this – .” She broke off and pulled back, looking at him.

Tom took her hands. “It’s okay. Please. How is he?”

“They’ve just taken him in for surgery.”

“Surgery!”

His father appeared at their side, extending his hand. He gestured to the corner of the lobby where they could have more privacy. Heart thumping in his chest, Tom followed numbly.

“I just spoke with his surgeon. From the information Tom gave to the EMTs they did a few scans on Chris and discovered a dark patch in his brain, which they’re pretty sure is a tumor. It’s not too big I was told, about the size of a walnut.” She took a deep breath and wiped her cheeks, one bad bit of news from a complete breakdown.

“What does the surgery mean? They’ll take it out?” Tom asked, voice shaking. His dad touched his shoulder and he remembered to breathe.

“The doctor seems confident. But he said the location of the tumor can be complicated. I don’t think I took everything in, it was so much information. But it could affect coordination, his memories, even his speech. There really is no way of telling. It’s all so sudden…”

Her voice faded away as a roaring took up in Tom’s ears, gaze going distant, heart stuttering in his chest.

His memories. Chris’s memories could be lost, all their time together…just gone. He might have made a small noise because his dad’s hand on his shoulder tightened gently.

“How long will the surgery take?” his father asked.

“They estimate 4-6 hours. Chris was unconscious when they began so they will keep him in an induced coma when they’re done. Something about keeping any brain swelling down.”

Tom lurched to his feet, holding his stomach. He barely made it to the men’s restroom, slamming into one of the stalls and vomiting into the toilet. All of his trepidation and anguish gushed out of him, choking on red slush and broken sobs. Chris could lose his very self, his independence and memories. One careless shift of the knife and he could die.

He moaned and spit up some more, dread clamming up his hands.

Tom wasn’t even given the chance to see him one last time, to hold his hand and beg him to remember him, all of their beautiful moments. Their smiles and kisses. The heat and laughter. Even the darker moments, when Chris was angry or confused. It leveled a deep connection between them, this shared experience, that Tom and he should always know.

Because that was the deepest root of his fear, was that he would forget Tom. That the small prisms of light inside his brain that were his memories of Tom would be darkened permanently, removed, obliterated. And Chris would never know what he was missing, would look at Tom like he was another stranger.

Heaving until there was nothing left, Tom flushed the toilet and staggered out of the stall. His dad was standing by the sinks, holding a wet paper towel.

Tom nodded his thanks and took it to wipe his mouth.

“Are you okay?”

He shrugged, leaning into the sink, swallowing around the bitterness in his mouth. “I don’t know what to think. I mean, he’s had these headaches come off and on for a while. His mood changes sometimes. But nothing dangerous,” he added quickly at the questioning look his father threw at him. “Just kind of bad tempered. Grouchy. It just wasn’t like him, the way I know he actually is.”

Sighing, his dad crossed his arms and leaned into the wall. “His mom is going to stay here with him, but I think I should take you home.”

“No.”

“Tom, it’s getting late and you need to rest.”

“I don’t want to leave him, dad.”

“He won’t be able to know – .”

“ _Stop_ ,” Tom breathed, covering his face with both hands.

There was a pause. “Talk to me, Tom. Please.”

But he couldn’t – not in that strange bathroom in the hospital where faceless doctors were cutting into his boyfriend’s skull. “I don’t feel well.”

“Let’s go home, son. Think about it. He’ll be in surgery for about six hours. And then he’ll need to rest after. We can come back in the morning and see him then.”

“What if he doesn’t remember me?” Tom whispered, fist pressed to his mouth.

“Oh, sweetheart,” his dad sighed, wrapping him in his arms. “Who could possibly forget you?”

**


	12. Chapter 12

Tom:

They exchanged numbers with Chris’s mom, who promised to alert them with any unexpected news. Tom figured that would include only the most horrifying of possibilities, Chris’s death, and numbly thanked her.

Shock spread like frost through his body as he let his father lead him like a lost sheep to his car. The city blurred outside the window, dizzying and distant. There was nothing that could spare him the images flashing through his mind, all of Chris, all of pain. Had it been painful for him? Had he been scared? Had he known what was happening to his body? He fisted his hand, jaw clamped, eyes squeezed shut, and willed Chris to survive, to wake up, to remember.

Upstairs in the bathroom he got his first glimpse of himself since it all happened. Skin sunburned, bruised under his eyes, blood smeared on his face from the inflamed cut on his cheek from Chris’s cleat. He stripped slowly, dropping his clothes on the floor and stepping up to the shower. The water spewed out cold before slowly turning hot, a burning brand on his skin. He washed halfheartedly, shampooing his hair, soaping up his limbs. His tears scorched hotter than the water. He couldn’t look down at himself and see evidence of Chris’s love on him, the bruises and bites still etched so lovingly, despairing to imagine them disappearing like Chris’s memories, faded to nothing. Drying himself quickly, he retreated to his room and crawled into bed, closing his eyes and reliving every moment, every pang of fear.

Outside his window across the way, Chris’s window was dark.

He didn’t sleep, couldn’t possibly. And in the morning, his eyes were swollen and irritated. Snatching up his phone, he checked for any messages and saw one from Chris’s mom sent seventeen minutes before.

**Out of surgery and in recovery. Doctor is very happy with procedure. Confident he took it all out. Chris is in induced coma. Are monitoring him. Come by whenever you can.**

 Tom was already tripping into some jeans and shoving his feet into shoes.

“Dad! We gotta go!”

He brushed his teeth while his dad got dressed, and they were on the road in less than five minutes. Tom’s foot jangled against the floor, thumbnail bitten to the quick.

“That’s all she said?” his father asked, taking a left at the light.

“Yes. Should I try calling her?”

“We’re almost there, sit tight.”

He replied to her anyway. **Be there in 5.**

The nurse at the front desk checked their names on a clipboard, had them sign in, and provided them with name-tags. She buzzed them through a set of double doors and they followed her directions to the intensive care unit.

Chris’s mom was sitting in a smaller, more private lobby.

“Tom,” she whispered. She was wearing the same clothes from the night before and didn’t appear to have left the hospital at all. She gave him a hug, smiled at his father. “He’s sleeping.”

“Has he woken at all?”

“No. But I’ve been told that’s normal. And his surgeon was so enthusiastic. Said the tumor’s location was extremely ideal. He’s expecting a full recovery, but his team will monitor Chris’s progress, make sure it was benign. That it won’t grow back.”

“That’s great news,” his father said.

“Can I see him?” Tom asked, hope burgeoning through him.

“Yes, of course. I was just in there with him. I came out to meet you.”

“Would you care to grab some coffee with me?” his dad asked her. “This one dragged me out of the house before I even had my shoes laced on.”

Her laugh was short, a genuine tinkle that ended abruptly as if surprised, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. “I would love to. Thank you. Tom, he’s in 1405. Would you like me to go in with you?”

“No,” he rasped, voice thick. “But thank you. I’ll be okay.”

She smiled a little sadly. “Don’t be alarmed. I see him in there still.”

His heart stuttered to a stop in his chest, mouth drying. But she gave his arm a squeeze and followed his dad to the elevators. Swallowing around his growing trepidation, Tom walked silently down the hall and stopped in front of the door marked 1405. He pushed it open slowly, closing it again and leaning back against it. The room was dark, a spotlight over the single bed, illuminating the boy there in a sphere of soft light. There were machines set off to the side, glowing unobtrusively, emitting a small beep every little while.

Chris lay under a light white cotton blanket, an oxygen mask over his face, his right hand limp on the bedspread, a needle tucked into the vein. His other arm was bound tightly in a sling, curled up against his chest, and Tom remembered the appalling crack of the ball striking Chris’s shoulder. But it was the shorn hair that caught Tom’s eyes. Chris’s long blond hair had been shaved along his forehead and curved to the right, concealed by the bright bandage taped to his skull. Tom was reminded of Samson and all his strength, and he nearly sobbed aloud just then, clapping a hand to his mouth at the last second. He inhaled slowly, exhaled slower. Sliding one foot in front of the other, he made his way around the end of the bed and to Chris’s side, staring down at him, searching for any hint that he was there. But his chest only rose and fell, the machines beeping evidence of life.

They had cut into him, had peeled back his skin and sawed into his skull and removed a piece of poison from inside the sacred darkness of his cranium. Tom reeled from the violation of it all, sickened to his core. “You,” he breathed, vision smeared with tears. “You come back to me, Christopher. Do you hear me? You come home to me. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.” The sobs balling at his throat pushed their way free and he choked out a moan. He slipped his hand into Chris’s warm one, careful with the needle, savoring every callous bump along his palm.

“Can you hear me? Do you know my voice?”

Chris only breathed, his long dark lashes fanned on his cheeks.

“You have to know now, right? You have to know, Chris. And I need you to wake up and tell me too. Because I know you do. There’s no way a person can look at me like you do and not feel that.” He sat on the edge of the chair facing the bed, dragged it as close as he could, smoothing his hand up Chris’s arm. “I wanted to text you a hundred times last night. I wanted to jump the wall, climb the trellis and sneak into your room. Have you lift me in. Because I’m like nothing in your arms, am I?” he said softly, fondly. His hand curved over Chris’s good shoulder, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I miss you. It isn’t like when you’re in your room and I’m in mine, or when you have class across campus. You feel farther now. So far from me. I can’t run to you. I can’t get to you like this. I’m right here and you don’t even know. Please, can you hear me?” He rose from his seat and leaned over Chris, pressing gently into his side, kissing his neck. “You can’t be where you are without me. You’re mine and I need you back.” He hugged him as gently as he could, pressed feather-soft kisses to his cheek, whispered his name again and again.

“I’m not done with you yet, Christopher,” he whispered. “I promised you a snow cone.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Tom smoothed Chris’s remaining hair back, careful with the bandage. He spoke softly to him, of their secrets and their happiness, of their future plans, of college. He traced the veins running along Chris’s forearm, pressed his lips to the pulse at his elbow. He stayed with him until their parents returned, guarding him. And when it was time to leave, the courage to let his hand go deserted Tom, who found it difficult to accept the idea of further separation.

“We’ll come again tomorrow,” his dad promised, hand on Tom’s arm, the pressure only just enough to say _let’s go_.

“Okay,” Tom gasped, wiping his face. He set Chris’s hand back on the bed and gave his pointer finger a gentle squeeze. They waved at Chris’s mom who stood with a doctor down the hall. In the elevator, Tom sagged into his father’s side, exhausted. “What did she say?”

“She loves her son,” his dad sighed. “Was completely surprised by it all. She thought Chris was being a typical teenager, fine one moment, moody the next. And she admits to working a lot, so she’s not often home. But Chris is so independent she didn’t feel worried about it. He plays his sport and does his schoolwork. He’s a good kid. No parent expects this type of thing.” The elevator doors opened and they walked out into the lobby.

“I want him to wake up so badly,” Tom said sadly.

“He will, sweetheart. She told me that they would keep in in the induced coma for two days, and then bring him out of it. They are confident he will wake on his own. It’s only a matter of time.”

Too long, Tom thought, getting into his father’s car and buckling in. The hospital was bathed in orange from the sun, the windows glinting brightly. But as his car navigated through the parking lot, the angle shifted and the windows dulled to a normal sheen, no longer brilliant. That’s how it will be, he feared. That’s how the lights in Chris’s head will slowly go out, one by one.

**

After two miserable days where Tom stumbled through work and hardly slept, he got a text message.

**They’re bringing him out of induced coma. He will be allowed to wake on his own whenever he’s ready. Soon I hope! I will keep you updated.**

In the refrigerated stockroom at the ice cream parlor, Tom slumped against the cold wall, a breath shuddering out of him. Heat swarmed his veins as emotion and hope rushed through him, an elated little laugh bubbling out. Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, he put away his phone and hauled two boxes of praline pecan ice cream down the hall, unable to stop grinning. After his shift, he texted his father.

**Going to hospital. Chris will wake soon! I’ll be home later. What’s to eat?**

Jumping in his car, he glanced at his phone when it buzzed.

**That’s wonderful! I’m happy for him, and you. Anything you want, kiddo. Pizza?**

**Thanks dad. Perfect. I’ll text you later.**

The hospital was busy with activity, the fast steps of the nurses squeaking on the shiny floors, soft moans of pain from those waiting in the lobby. Taking the elevator to the ICU Tom checked in and started down the hall toward Chris’s room.

“Tom?”

He turned and was surprised to find Estelle from the school cafeteria there in a candy striper uniform, of all things. He grinned. “Estelle!”

“Baby, come on over here and give me a hug!” She beckoned with her arms, and he fell into them happily, her plush bosom soft against him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked when they broke apart.

“I bring balloons and dolls to the children in the cancer ward. Sweet babies, they just brighten up. Makes my heart float from pure happiness. Now I can ask you the same, young man.” She made a fuss of glancing over him, making sure he wasn’t hurt. “What’s a flower like you got any reason to be at the hospital?”

“My boyfriend is here. He had brain surgery.”

She was aghast. “What in heaven! What happened?”

He told her about Chris’s headaches and his seizure and collapse at his baseball game, how the doctors discovered a tumor in his brain.

“And they removed it?” she asked.

He nodded. “He was in an induced coma, but they brought him out of it today.”

“They do that sometimes, to let the body heal. Is he a big strapping boy? A strong boy?” He nodded again, a smile slowly growing on his face. She touched his cheek gently. “Then he’ll be right as rain. You keep your head up, sugar. Be brave for your boyfriend. All he needs is a little time.”

“Thank you, Estelle,” Tom whispered, and hugged her again.

“Now I gotta run, baby, but I’ll see you in August? I still got you for one more year!” She grinned, her eyes closing to squints.

“Yes, August,” he managed around the lump in his throat. What would August mean for him and Chris? Would they still be together, or would everything be…different? “Be safe out there, Estelle.”

Her face softened. “You too, baby.”

He watched her shuffle off down a hall painted purple and green, the children’s cancer ward, before continuing on his way to the ICU. Stopping before room 1405, he knocked softly and then walked in. Chris’s mom was sitting at end of the bed, massaging Chris’s foot. Respirator off and breathing on his own, Chris was still unconscious, lying still against the pillows. It seemed the bandage on his head had been replaced, but his arm was in the same cream-colored sling.

“Tom.” Chris’s mom smiled when she saw him.

“How is he?” was his first question.

“He’s good. His readings have all been coming back as positive as can be expected.”

Tom approached the bed and touched Chris’s hand, the soft blond hairs at his wrist.

“You must miss him,” she whispered, and his throat swelled up.

“Yes,” he said softly. “So much.”

“He’ll come back. I can feel it.” Her moist eyes were on her son, pooled in deep tenderness.

They passed most of the day in quiet conversation. She shared with him stories of Chris’s childhood, of birthdays and holidays, how easily he smiled, his bubbly laugh big and round. Teary through most of it, Tom soothed Chris’s forehead and told her about how he and Chris met, their almost car accident, when Chris saved him from the bullies in the school bathroom.

“I didn’t know…about you and him,” she admitted. “About liking boys, I mean. He just came to me one day and was like ‘So I’d like for you to meet Tom. He’s my boyfriend and he’s the sweetest person alive and you’ll love him’”. Laughter burst from Tom, shaking his head in amusement. “I was like ‘okay!’. But my schedule has been so busy and it’s good money for overtime. I requested a weekend a couple of weeks from now, thinking we could invite you over for dinner. But I never…” Her words faded but Tom already knew those missing. _But I never expected this to happen._

“Who does?” he whispered, and she turned her head to wipe her tears discreetly.

She sniffed and smiled. “But it’s always so—.”

They froze when Chris’s right hand twitched, a movement so fast Tom was sure he had imagined if it weren’t for Chris’s mother’s shocked expression.

“Did you—?” he started.

“ _Yes_.”

They scrambled up and leaned over Chris, who remained inert, chest rising and falling shallowly.

“Chris,” his mother whispered. “Honey, can you hear me?”

His hand jerked this time, a harder motion, eyes visibly moving beneath their lids, left to right, left to right. Inside his ribcage, Tom’s heart was galloping, staring down at Chris, willing him to rise, to breathe his name, to kiss him.

“Please,” he mouthed.

Beside the bed, the machines began lighting up, readings elevating, the beeping increasing. Footsteps hurried down the hall toward their room.

“Chris,” his mother sobbed. “Sweetheart, wake up. I’m here. It’s okay.”

On the bed, Chris’s hand had clenched into a fist.

Several people burst into the room and Tom was bumped to the side, his eyes stuck on that fist, the raised veins.

“He’s hurting,” he breathed. “Help him. Please, he’s in pain.”

And then Chris’s eyes slid open, a hazy blue, still half-unconscious.

But the doctors were already crowded over Chris, speaking numbers out to each other. They worked calmly and quietly, not wanting to startle their coma patient and brain surgery survivor.

“Chris, can you hear me? My name is Dr. Havens. I am one of your attending physicians.”

Chris’s hand had unclenched and was lying palm-open. Something deep and instinctive stirred in Tom’s heart, and he stepped to the right, trying to find a small window through which to see Chris’s face.

Everyone quieted as Chris slowly inhaled and exhaled, his first deep breath in several days. Something sparked in his eyes and they sharpened, awareness setting in. One of the machines started beeping rapidly and the doctor placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Chris, everything is okay. There’s no need to panic.” Chris lifted his hand to the side, a clumsy reflex. His eyes widened and he shifted on his back, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Try not to move too much, Chris. You’re heavily sedated, but you do have a broken clavicle and you’ve recently had a growth removed from your brain.”

Cornflower blue eyes squinted, confused, hand beginning to tremble.

“I’m going to perform a few simple tests to verify your level of comprehension and ability to function. Take a deep breath for me please.”

Chris did so, hand flexed flat.

“Good. Now, blink one for yes, or two for no. Can you talk now if you chose to?”

A moment passed, and then two blinks.

“That’s just fine. We’ll work on that.”

“Why isn’t he talking?” his mother asked.

“This is not uncommon,” the doctor replied. “Some motor and speech skills may take some time returning.” He lowered his voice, shining a pen light into Chris’s eyes. Chris didn’t even flinch. “Pupil reaction a fraction delayed, also normal. Temperature?”

“Ninety-nine point one,” a nurse replied calmly.

“Wiggle the toes of your right foot, followed by your left.”

His toes wiggled in order.

“Excellent. You’re doing great.”

One of the nurses moved to the side and a full view of Chris appeared to Tom. The air in his lungs congealed and his lips parted, concern and desire warring within him. Pressed back against the wall, he gulped and slowly stepped forward. In that instant Chris’s eyes slid up and fastened to him. Color rose high in Chris’s neck and he took another deep breath, his hand loosening. The doctor was still speaking quietly to Chris, whose eyes tracked Tom. His expression was hard to read, a soft blankness, eyes the only indication of any possible recognition. But how could Tom be sure? The alternative was too agonizing to contemplate. Pain lanced through his breastbone the longer they stared at each other, tears pricking his eyes. When one of the nurses approached him to ask him to wait outside while they settled Chris in, Tom could barely nod. She ushered him out and he turned at the last moment to see Chris’s head angled carefully to watch Tom, eyes blinking once, yes.

**

_I couldn’t believe the heat. The terrible weight of it. The glare and the sting in my view. Counting the minutes until I could grab Tom and get the hell out of there, somewhere indoors and air conditioned. In came the pitch and I leaned into my crouch, the ump’s hand on my back. My glove closed over air as the batter swung a foul, the players on the field relaxing their stances. I kept signaling Williams for a cutter, just what coach wanted, but his curve was dipping too soon and sailing in belt-high, fodder for home runs. I motioned downward with my hand._ Calm down. _Williams nodded, shaking it off. I glanced to the side, spotted Tom’s red cap, a hand braced on each cheek. No use, I thought with a smile, he’d be burned red the next day. Focusing in again, I gave the sign and Williams dug his toe into the mound, flitting eyes over his shoulder, monitoring the runner on first. I watched him bring the ball up, lift his leg for the windup._

_Something fizzled above my eye, deep in my head, and I blinked, the heat rising all over my skin. Williams angled his arm back and stepped forward, launching his ninety mile per hour curve ball, right on point. It swung out and, as if on an invisible arc, it curled and flew right at me._

_My arm deadened, a weight I couldn’t hold, and I faltered. The pitch caught me right at my shoulder and I felt my bone snap. Pain flared down my side as I stumbled back, but all I could focus on was the bubble of light building in my eyes, blinding me. The pressure in my skull grew so badly that a cry choked up in my throat._

_Falling back. Landing hard, the searing sky and two birds flitting together in a merry dance. Pain, flash of pure electricity racing down my spine. Feathers on my cheek._

_And then nothing. I don’t remember a thing. Next moment I was opening my eyes to find a crowd of people around me, bright lights, other voices but mine. My throat closed up when I tried to speak, my jaw tight. I could breathe finally, my lungs expanding like I’d been living at the bottom of the sea and had finally washed ashore. I could hear my mom and I wanted to weep, my hands reaching. But my left arm was strapped tightly to me, folded in like a bird’s wing, and my right hand bumbled against my thigh. I could feel every part of my body, but I felt sluggish and too heavy. The doctor’s voice was kind and soft, and I followed his instructions as best I could._

_But there was an ache in my chest I couldn’t name, a terrible longing I didn’t like. Because if I longed this deeply, it meant I was without. And I couldn’t remember what it was, couldn’t place the why. It yawned a hole in my chest and bubbled tears to my eyes. I missed something, and not knowing what was breaking my heart._  
_But then I saw him. He came into view, muted and watery in the darker shadows at the edge of the room. His sweet face eased the trouble gnawing at the ragged lining of my chest and I sighed at the sight of him, this beautiful boy, emotion swelling in me so that everything else faded to static._

_He was moving slowly, staring at me with big round eyes, as pretty as an angel. Was he one? Could anyone else see him? And then he was gone, closed from the room, and my despair slammed back into me. The tears fell this time, streaking down my face. My mom was there, kissing me softly, more words I only half caught. They checked more of me, tested my eyes, my grip, my breathing._

_I wanted the angel back. I wanted him here. Flickers of him teased my memory but I couldn’t see anything solid. Just glimpses, impressions that I know belong to him. And yet, he was entrenched in every one of my instincts, every single impulse warring through me._

_Would he come back? Would I see him again? I would wait. For him, I would wait through sun and heat and parched thirst. All the mountains tumbling down on me, I would wait._


	13. Chapter 13

Tom:

 

Tom kept a steady thread of communication with Chris’s mom. She updated him on his progress and the doctor’s suggestions of speech therapy and other possible methods of functional recovery. Chris still wasn’t speaking, but he sat up on his own on the second day, the movement leaving him breathless. Inert for so long, his muscles and limbs were achy, his mother said, but he was moving more each day.

“The doctors want to limit his interactions with people. Too much exposure can lead to a slower progress. I know you want to see him, but could we wait a few days until he’s more settled?”

“Yes,” Tom whispered, the word like barbed wire in his throat. He didn’t blame Chris’s mother or the doctors – the request made sense. But it did nothing to alleviate the pain of more days passing without seeing him.

“And how is he?” he said, clearing his throat.

Her sigh was happy. “He’s so much better, Tom. He’s so calm, very tranquil. Moving slowly, but his eyes are lit up, absorbing everything.”

“Good,” Tom managed, pressing fingers into the corners of his eyes.

“Dr. Havens had him try writing today. He held the pen with his dominant hand, wrote out simple words. Apple, treasure, computer, bike. Angel. I’m so amazed at him.”

“I can’t wait to see him,” Tom confessed, cradling the phone to his ear.

“I know, honey. Soon, I promise.”

The sun dawned brightly on the morning he was allowed to see Chris. He was giddy with nerves as he showered and changed, got in his car and drove. Finally. Today, _today_. The journey was a blur of buildings and street signs, traffic stops and desert scape. He was trembling like a leaf as he ascended in the elevator to the ICU, smoothing down his shirt and running a hand through his hair. The door opened just as he was about to knock.

“Tom!” Chris’s mother greeted him with a smile. She closed the door behind her. “He woke up from a nap a few minutes ago, but he’s sitting up and in good spirits. I was about to step out for some coffee, give you some time alone.” She hugged him, squeezing him close. “Thank you for being so patient. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

Hand on the doorknob, he waited until she was around the corner before he walked in. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Chris faced the windows, staring out. Tom immediately noticed that his head was buzzed down, military style, to match where they had cut it for his surgery. The white bandage was smaller this time, the tape adhered to his skin. He still had purple lines from the marker used by the surgeons, but they were faint. He was wearing dark blue sweat pants and a light grey T-shirt, the left sleeve hanging empty, Chris’s arm still wrapped tightly in its sling. On his feet were standard hospital socks with blood circulation patches.

Tom clicked the door shut. Chris stiffened and tilted his head, listening. It took every ounce of courage he had to walk around the bed and face his fear of Chris’s lack of recognition. But with several hesitant steps he came to stand before him, their eyes locked on one another.

And Chris – pressing his good hand to his chest – shuddered out a soft breath, face crumbling in tears.

“No,” Tom whispered and stepped between Chris’s legs. Careful with his bandage and sling, he cradled Chris’s head to his breast and held him. An arm wrapped around his hips and he was crushed against his big, trembling body, warmth seeping into his clothes, hot tears soaked into his shirt. “I’m here now. I’m here. You’re all I could think about.”

A moan broke quietly through his tears and Chris rubbed his cheek on Tom’s chest, hand fisted in the material of his shirt. They rested against each other, braced and needy, until Chris lifted his face and Tom smoothed away his tears with a wipe of his thumbs. Blue eyes swimming, Chris took in every inch of Tom’s face, mouth opening, trying, trying. But no words came out, and he gritted his teeth in frustration, arm tightening a fraction.

“It’s all right, my darling,” Tom whispered, their noses brushing. “Don’t struggle. I know you with my heart. I know you with all that I am. Take your time with remembering. Unless…you do? Remember me?”

Something flicked in Chris’s eyes, uncertainty, the panic creeping back in. But then he brought his hand up and placed it on his heart again, tapping it twice.

“You remember me, in here?”

Chris nodded quickly, hope brimming.

“But you don’t know my name?”

Chris’s face fell slightly and he shook his head.

Tom took in a steadying breath, defeat shuttering his eyes. A big hand came up to cup his cheek, warm lips sliding over his jaw. Chris’s voice was in there somewhere, in the soft moans and grunts he gave to communicate. His words would return to him, and with them more memories and Tom’s name.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled, trying not to let his hurt show. “You’ll remember me one day.” But his lip trembled and a fat tear dropped, soaking his lashes.

Chris whined again, hurrying to stand. Like this, he towered over Tom, reminiscent of all the times he had snatched Tom up and held him like a hero would his damsel. Nothing would make Tom feel safer, or so sweetly vulnerable than moments like this, and it was tender instinct that he hung his head back and waited. Hitching him close, Chris eyed him with desperate hunger and then bent to kiss him. It was clumsy but soft, the sweetest display of devotion Tom had ever experienced. When they broke apart, they were clutched together from hips to shoulders, gasping and melting into each other.

“Chris,” Tom cried softly. “I missed you so much. I was so worried.”

Chris just shook his head, regret turning down the corners of his eyes.

“You might not remember all of me yet, but please know that I’ll wait. You have all of me, you’ve seen and felt all of me, Chris. My heart, the most. I will wait for when you know my name.”

Relief sagged Chris’s lashes low and he kissed him again, the smallest moan vibrating against Tom’s chest. With the pad of his thumb, he smoothed over Tom's lip ring, studying it with an ease Tom recognized from before his seizure. It would seem that that part of Chris's personality might remain the same, the unapologetic display of interest he would bestow on Tom and other things he liked. With a shy smile, Chris took his hand and they sat together on the bed. Under his pillow was a pad of paper and a pen. Words were scribbled between the blue lines, and they bent over them together. Chris pointed to one word he had written a dozen times.

“Angel,” Tom read, before glancing at Chris, who smiled. He pointed at Tom and then at the word. “You think I’m an angel?” A sinking feeling of dread started at the pit of his stomach, wondering if Chris was showing signs of delusion. But Chris shook his head and picked up the pen. Tom held the pad for him as, in very careful strokes, he wrote something out. His hand shook slightly, his grip on the pen awkward.

_When I woke up I couldn’t name what it was I missed. It was the worst feeling. But then I saw you and I knew. You were it. But I can’t remember your name, and I’m so sorry. I thought I might be dreaming, and I thought you must be an angel. When you left I didn’t know how to ask for you. Angel was all I could use to mean you._

Tom read silently and affection billowed through him at the words. He draped his arm behind Chris’s back and leaned into him.

“Should I tell you my name or – ?”

Chris was scribbling furiously again, shaking his head.

_I want to remember. Don’t tell me._

Tom smiled sadly. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I want you to remember too. There is a selfish, jealous vein inside of me that demands that you know.”

_There is a jealous furious vein in me that insists I know. That I be the only one._

“You are,” Tom whispered, butting his forehead on Chris’s shoulder. Chris nuzzled him back, the soft bristles of his buzzed hair scratching lightly.

_But I can feel you in me. I felt you after I opened my eyes. I didn’t know what I wanted, only that I did. You’re a part of me._

If there had been any doubt in Tom’s mind about rejection from Chris, it was no longer. No, he didn’t know his name, but these written confessions assured him of his place in Chris’s heart. Chris was still figuring it out, and he was so fresh from surgery that only time would prove the bearer of their truth. But every single memory they created together were still nestled in there, somewhere, if this impression of love was so strong in Chris’s mind.

“I’m here now,” Tom said again. Their mouths brushed. “And I’ll help you.”

**

Chris was in the hospital for sixteen days. The doctors annotated his improvement, conducted more tests, declared Chris tumor free after the biopsy came back benign, and permitted him to go home. Tom had become used to driving to and from the hospital after his shifts, sitting still while Chris did this or that task. But no matter the activity, Chris would track Tom around the room, his eyes never off him for more than a few seconds. His focus on Tom was a little sharper than before, more intense. Before, Chris’s headaches or discomfort would distract him and make him slightly unreachable. But now with only a healing incision itchy with stitches, Chris’s attention on him was entire. It made Tom squirm whenever Chris would stare right at him while a physician was trying to get him to complete a puzzle or sort out a pattern in seemingly random images. And when they had a few moments alone, it was spent in desperate necking. Gently but urgently, they gasped and kissed, Chris limited by the use of only one arm, Tom by his fear of being walked in on. With flushed faces and swollen lips, they parted every night. Tom wasn’t sure what had happened with Chris’s cell phone but he imagined it was still in the bags his coach had delivered to his house, uncharged and useless with his dirty socks and sneakers. He’d have to remember to ask Chris’s mom about locating it so they could resume texting. It would be okay, he thought. He knew for a fact that Chris had him listed under ‘Babe’ and not his real name.

When it was time for Chris to go home, Tom requested to leave work early. He hitched a ride with Chris’s mom to the hospital, and she chatted about the foods she had stocked the fridge with and the clean sheets she’d put on his temporary new bed. It was late July and Chris’s summer baseball season was only half-way through. He would miss the rest of the season, but there was no way around it. He wasn’t ready for stair climbing much less rigorous physical activity. His doctor came in as they were nearly finished packing his things, offering some last minute advice. No stress, no working out for at least two months, drink plenty of water, resume regular sleeping hours as soon as possible. Because of this, Chris would be staying in the guest bedroom on the first floor of his house. He would be sensitive to light for a while, so sunglasses during the day were a must. Tom had packed Chris’s favorite pair and handed them to him after he was dressed.

“You have any questions, Chris?”

Chris checked to make sure his mother was busy collecting the last of his toiletries in the bathroom, and then nodded. He scribbled something fast on the pad of paper he carried with him everywhere. The doctor read it and turned a little pink, glancing briefly at Tom. “Oh. Well, I’d say a few more weeks at least. And start slowly. Nothing too…strenuous. And if you have any questions about anything, please call the number on this card and my team will get your message to me.” He handed Chris a white card with the hospital information on it. Chris nodded his thanks.

“You’ll be just fine, Chris,” Dr. Havens said. “You’re a strong young man. You’ll be playing baseball again soon. And be patient with yourself. The area we removed the tumor from affects short term memory, anywhere between the day before your seizure to six months ago, if not longer.”

Tom swallowed and glanced away, knowing full well that their relationship fell within the six month range.

"But statistics show that up to sixty percent of people recover most if not all their memories. Just be patient with yourself." The doctor smiled and then showed himself out.

Chris wore his shades on the drive home. He sat in the backseat with Tom, hands held firmly between them. But the sunlight and the scenery were too much for now, and he kept his head down, a hand over his brow. Once home, Tom helped Chris up the drive and into the spare bedroom. Just that short walk had him short of breath, and he lay down to rest. Tom noticed Chris’s phone was plugged into the charger by the bedside table and picked it up, unlocking the screen.

The wallpaper was a picture of the two of them taken during one of their stolen moments out at their secret spot in the desert. He smiled at how happy they looked, squinty-eyed and grinning. He remembered the windows fogged around the edges, the stinging bite of a fresh hickey on his throat, Chris’s arm slung around his waist. It seemed Chris’s possessiveness hadn’t waned, if hungry eyes and reaching hands were any indication.

Warm fingers tapped his wrist and Tom passed Chris the phone. Lying on his back, Chris flicked through the pictures in his photo gallery, a soft smile playing on his lips. Did he remember none of them? Would he recover anything? He bit his lip, watching Chris, identifying that somewhere in his sadness was a budding hope. Time was all Chris needed. Time, and a patient heart.

**

Tom continued working his regular hours but went straight to Chris’s house once his shifts were over. His dad sent Chris flowers with a note that he wished him a quick and healthy recovery because a kickin’ cookout waited for him once he was better.

Chris sniffed out a laugh and showed Tom.

“He really used kickin’? Wow, he’s hilarious.”

His friends from the team visited, too, but these were always short since Chris couldn’t speak still. They were in awe of his incision, though, and marveled at how fine the cut was and how painful the stitches looked. Chris would shrug like it was nothing.

When Tom was at work, Chris practiced on his writing and reading. Both skills were still intact but the doctor encouraged it to advance his progress and ignite the part of his brain that dealt with muscle memory and detail retention. His mother took time off from work to be with him during the more tentative days following his surgery, and together they worked on the vocal exercises his physician had printed out for him to try, but it left Chris exhausted and frustrated when he failed to form coherent sounds. He was usually near tears by the time Tom would arrive with a cup of Chris’s favorite ice cream. As soon as he returned home one afternoon, Chris closed the door to his room and led Tom to the window seat. He covered his face with his hand and started crying quietly.

“What is it, my darling?” Tom whispered, scooting closer and hugging him. “You’re anxious about it all.”

Chris nodded, wiping angrily at his cheek.

“Take a deep breath now. With me.”

They inhaled and exhaled together, slow and easy, until Chris was calm.

"What have you done today?" Tom asked, handing him his ice cream.

 Chris rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone, typing with one hand. _Nothing. Everything_.

"Have you been out today?"

He shook his head.

"Let's go for a walk."

Chris sat on the bed and slipped on his shoes, giving Tom a playful, steely stare when he knelt before him to tie his laces. Chris was striving for complete independence and refused help on some things, but with his broken collarbone and sensitivity to balance he was often limited. Tom returned his narrowed gaze and patted his ankles once done.

"Ready?"

Chris nodded and went to his closet where he pulled out a snapback baseball cap and put it on over his bandage. Tom helped him adjust it, kissed his cheek, and took his hand. On the way out the door Tom called out that they were going for a walk and from somewhere upstairs Chris's mom shouted okay. The day's heat was simmering low on the pavement, not as strong as a few hours before. Shades on, Chris took care with where he stepped, Tom's arm tucked into his elbow. They walked down the street and turned the corner on Fauna. Tom said nothing about living on this street in the very house behind Chris’s own. He was curious to see if his house would spark any kind of memory, if it could be that easy. They ambled slowly down the walk, Chris’s shades obscuring his eyes. When they reached Tom’s drive, Chris looked up at the house and Tom could have sworn he felt a hesitation, but then Chris’s gaze swept past it and he smiled down at Tom as he guided them forward. He put his arm around Tom’s shoulders and pulled him into his side, not noticing Tom’s look of disappointment.

Tom couldn’t help himself. “You don’t recognize it?”

Chris stopped walking, frowning slightly.

“That house,” he said, pointing behind them. “It’s my house.”

Chris’s frown deepened and he gave the house a longer look, his brows knitted together in worry. Tom saw the clenched jaw, straining for even the smallest hint and finding nothing, and regret rushed through him. He hurried to comfort. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to pressure you. Remember what Dr. Havens said, that everything associated with me is in that sensitive time frame you still don’t remember.”

Chris faced him quickly, putting his big hand on Tom’s chest. He mouthed the word _you_.

Tom smiled and shrugged. “You remember the idea of me, the impression. But you don’t remember me.”

Narrowing his eyes, Chris tugged his ear gently and grinned when Tom gasped.

“You little…,” Tom whispered, laughing. Chris grabbed his hand and tilted his head like _come on_.

“Where?” But he followed Chris up the drive to his house. He unlocked the front door, a nervous pulse skittering through his veins. Once inside, Chris glanced around curiously, his sling making him look bulkier than usual. There was the dining table where he and his father ate all their meals, the kitchen, the living room, the stairs. Chris headed straight there.

“Wait, you can’t,” Tom said, taking his elbow. But Chris already had his foot on the first step. Tom tightened his hold. “Okay, just…hold on a minute. We’ll go, but _very slowly_.”

And they did, taking each step one at a time, resting for several long moments between. He studied Chris’s breathing and his color but was relieved that he looked just fine, not struggling or in distress. They made it to the top landing and took a collective deep breath, smiling at each other.

Tom cleared his throat and pointed at his door. "That's my room."

Curiosity bloomed in Chris's expression and he headed for it.

Like the first time Chris had been in his room, he stopped now before Tom's wall of artwork and stared at it all. He hadn't added any new pieces for several weeks, busy with school and then work and hanging out with Chris, so most of the wall was exactly as it had been all those months before. Their conversation about the different artists and their techniques for drawing women versus men, their frantic kissing just after, the trail of torn paper as they'd slid to their knees. His heart ached with the weight of their memories as Chris fought for their scraps, filled with powerless anger that he bore their shared experiences alone, that Chris suffered in the dark. But he swallowed it down and took Chris's elbow again, this time to hold gently, to feel his softness, his warmth.

Chris pulled out his phone and typed something out. He showed Tom.

_Where are yours?_

Tom peered up at him, wondering if Chris remembered that Tom drew or if it was just obvious that someone who had so much artwork taped to their wall would be an artist too. He withdrew his portfolio from beside his desk, filled with his watercolors and charcoal sketches, and handed them to Chris. Holding it with his one hand, Chris took the portfolio to the bed and set it on top, perching himself beside it. Flipping open the cover, he studied each of Tom’s works carefully, pausing at the feathered tuft detail of hair, the long finger lines, the broad shoulders and squinted gaze.

He touched his chest with a fond, pleased smile. _Me._

Blushing terribly, Tom crossed his arms and rocked on his heels, biting nervously at his thumbnail.

When he was done, Chris closed the book and set it aside. He came to stand before Tom and waited, his thumb brushing the winking lip ring. And when Tom couldn’t take the need any longer, he lifted a hand and very gently pushed his pointer finger into Chris’s mouth, nudging his front teeth. He felt the smooth ridge, how strong they were rooted. Chris watched him, mouth slightly parted, quiet and thoughtful. _Please remember,_ Tom silently begged. _You know this_. Closing his lips around Tom’s finger, Chris’s tongue licked it softly, and then he bit down.

Heat flooded Tom’s belly and he felt lightheaded with desire. Groaning pitifully, he rose on his tiptoes and embraced Chris, arms around his shoulders, lips pressed to lips. With only his good arm to hold him with, Chris hooked Tom hard against him and they both moaned and clutched tighter. Tongues slipped into eager mouths, skin pricked with sensitivity, fingers slid over softly shorn hair.

Dipping his head, Chris mouthed at Tom’s throat, a chain of moist kisses. Tom smiled in rapture and let his head drop back, already knowing these urgent kisses weren’t enough to result in dark hickeys but would leave the palest streaks of lavender on his skin, a watercolor of Chris’s desire for him. Dragging his mouth from temple to ear, Tom nibbled there and swelled at the tortuous shudder that ran through Chris. He found himself pressed against the wall, legs opening, Chris’s thigh slipping between. In the foggy murk of Tom’s mind he thought of the warning the doctor had given.

Yes, that had been a couple of weeks ago and yes Chris was showing remarkable improvement; no more headaches, no more drastic mood swings, his stamina improving day after day. But they couldn’t risk harming something that was no doubt healing at its own pace, something fragile and beyond their comprehension. He pulled back, their lips parting with a smack.

“We can’t. Not yet. It’s too soon.”

Gasping quietly, Chris didn’t let him go but nodded. Forehead to forehead, they breathed and smiled, hugging finally in soft comfort.

Cheeks together, Tom murmured, “I miss your voice.”

Unable to say a thing, Chris tucked his face into Tom’s neck and sighed.

**

_I’ve been thinking of an idea. Dr. Havens helped me out with it. I’m really scared to try, but not improving isn’t an option either. I have to try. I owe it to myself, my mom, to my angel. I just hope it helps me._


	14. Chapter 14

Tom:

The days grew hotter and clouds began gathering in the evenings. It was the beginning of August and the monsoon rains had arrived, thunderous deluges that soaked the ground to squelchy mud and filled the arroyos with rushing waters. The scent of creosote burst through the air as the desert bloomed green one last time before its descent to autumn. They would sit on the creaking swing in the backyard, water dripping placidly around them, and hold hands quietly. Tilting his face up to the dark sky, Chris would smile. There were no mood swings, no temper. He grew sad sometimes, and frustrated with the healing process, but that dark aggression Tom had witnessed in him had never returned. He was a happy, smiling boy who fought the melancholy of his circumstances.

Chris’s collarbone was examined and the sling removed. The bruise was big and terrible to look at, a dark stain of ink and grape on his pale skin. The collarbone was set and mended but so vulnerable in its length. Chris had lost weight. The doctor wanted to see him regain it and begin physical therapy. Chris was excited about it. Tom knew that he had hopes to play collegiate baseball and he had all of fall and winter to recuperate and regain his strength. He threw himself into his exercises, returning home after each session sore and sweaty but in good spirits. His muscles were smaller, but his determination was encouraging and Tom felt happiness awaken inside him.

Sadness wasn’t a simple thing with a simple remedy. There were layers to Tom’s discontent: anger that this happened to Chris; fear that his memories would never return and Tom would have to live with them all alone. He felt jeopardized, his relationship with Chris attacked. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Chris there was a jealous vein inside him, possession and love and desire and friendship and comfort and companionship coursing through it. All of it was theirs, and it was hard not to feel cheated.

But within the layers of his sadness was hope. That Chris would regain what he’d lost, that he’d be completely healthy and restored, that he – and they – never suffer such a blow again. And overcome with affection, Tom would curl himself into Chris’s side and bear his silence, relieved above anything that he was alive.

And at night when Chris texted him that he couldn’t sleep, Tom would sneak out of his house and jump the wall, Chris waiting at the sliding glass door. Quiet as mice, they would crawl into the bed and lie beside each other, belly to belly, Tom’s fingers whispering over Chris’s slowly-growing hair. And they would steal together into sleep, limbs twisted, white bandage glowing brightly in the dark.

His mom asked him if he was practicing trying to speak and Chris would nod, but it wasn't anything formal. Sometimes Tom caught him mouthing words to himself, his throat bobbing as if trying to expel each word one letter at a time. It was difficult to witness his struggle, wishing he could be helped, but this was a battle all his own and it was one Chris seemed determined to win.

The first miracle happened on a Thursday. Tom had the day off and Chris’s mom was back at work. Empty pizza box on the floor, chicken wing bones gnawed and dry in their aluminum sleeve, the boys were sprawled half-reclining on the floor in front of the sofa watching a show on the world’s craziest car accidents caught on video. Tom was dozing, curled into Chris’s side, a hand on his chest. Chris may have been watching the TV or he may have been mouthing more words. But the next thing Tom knew, Chris was curved over him, lips to his ear, whispering, “Peach.”

He jolted to awareness the way a diver at the bottom of a swimming pool rockets to the surface. Chris was staring down at him with wet eyes and a wide smile, as stunned as Tom felt.

“Wh-what?” he stammered, trying to sit up. But Chris had hold of both his arms, his grip near painful in his excitement.

“ _Little_ peach,” he said, voice so soft, so hoarse, it barely existed. The murmur of a passing breeze, grown rusty with disuse, an echo of what it once was but _there_.

Tom gave a cry of happiness. They both scrambled up, helping pull the other to his feet.

“Chris, my god! You – you said…and you…you remembered something!” He was shouting.

Chris nodded, a tear splashing down his cheek.

“Can you say it again?”

Swallowing first, Chris pursed his mouth and tried again, his throat muscles working. “P…each.”

Heart pumping fast, Tom felt nearly faint with giddy relief. “Yes, your little peach. That’s what you always call me. Oh, how wonderful you are. How extraordinary.”

Chris flushed red and shrugged, more easily shy. A newer trait Tom found charming.

“It’s coming back to you, my darling. Words. Memories. They’re locked in there somewhere, but they’ll trickle out.”

They kissed each other fast, a hard promise. Collarbone still tender, Chris pulled Tom carefully close, both shaking with relief and adrenaline, not really having believed it was possible until that very moment.

**

Words returned to him slowly. His mother cried when she heard his raspy _mom_ the moment she arrived home from work. They embraced, her screaming and Chris grinning. 

The second miracle happened on a Monday. Tom was at work checking the softness of all the ice cream flavors when he felt his phone vibrating in his back pocket. Derek was helping the only customer in the store so Tom slipped to the back and checked the screen. It was Chris calling him. He answered quickly.

“Hello?”

“Music room,” came the rough whisper. “You…you were…h-h-hiding. And I found you.”

“ _Yes,”_ Tom said, clapping a hand to his mouth. “Anything else?”

“You like… _teeth_.”

Tom laughed and cradled the phone to his ear. “I especially love yours.”

The whisper was crackly through the phone. “Babe.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I’m out.”

“Love you.”

Tom froze, blinking down at the floor. They had never said that to each other before. Somehow – that it was something Chris simply knew rather than something he had to wonder about or remember – made it that much more meaningful.

“I love you too,” he said, smiling from ear to ear.

**

Pulling up to Chris’s house, Tom saw his mother’s car was gone. He parked on the street anyway. He hurried up the drive and pushed through the door.

“Chris?”

He heard three knocks from somewhere upstairs. Voice not yet ready for loud shouts, Chris had taken to knocking to draw attention to himself if he was too far for someone to hear him. Taking the stairs two at a time, Tom climbed to the second floor. Chris was in his room, examining one of his catcher’s mitts. The bandage on his head was off, the line of incision shiny with ointment. It was so fine it might have been unnoticeable if not for the black stitches still stapled into his skin like tiny spiders. But his hair was longer than that first day at the hospital and Tom could tell all but the smallest tip of the scar would be hidden once his hair was its usual length.

“What are you doing up here?”

Chris dropped the glove and crossed the room. 

“I missed you,” he said in his eternal rasp, and ducked to catch Tom’s mouth in a hard kiss, his hands already on Tom’s blue suspenders.

“I missed you too. I couldn’t wait to leave work.”

“No more talking. I’m busy,” he mumbled, nibbling at Tom’s neck. Tom giggled and arched up on his toes, wrapping Chris close by the neck.

“No talking? We’ve had enough of that! I want to hear you recite the phonebook.”

“What’s a phonebook?”

“God, I love you.”

“I love you more. I remembered you in that terrible dark sleep after my surgery. It’s like the simplest knowledge was stolen. Everything was so confusing. But not you. I knew it was you the moment I saw you. You were what I was waiting to see.” He leaned back and swallowed, still not used to saying so much at one time. The hoarse new quality to his voice, the deep register, was immensely attractive, and Tom felt his eyesight go clear, sharpen to dagger points, all the colors brighter. He saw oceans in Chris’s eyes, an eagle’s earth-dive, nebulas spinning.

Chris gave another shaky smile, the sharp edge of his clavicle showing from the loose collar of his shirt. “Tom.”

He went watery as tears filled Tom’s eyes, voice thickening with emotion. “Oh, my God. You…I can’t believe… _Yes_ , my darling.”

They fell into their embrace, desperate and teeming with joy. Collapsing back against the door, their kiss turned hungry and deep, Chris murmuring his name between affectionate lip smacks, eager hands, stumbling feet. Mouthing at his neck, holding his waist, he followed Tom like a moth to flame as they crept to the bed and tumbled down on it. Chris winced when his weaker arm took most of his weight, but Tom eased him back over him, resuming their kisses and nips.

Their clothes came off one shred at a time, zippers unzipped, buttons unbuttoned, cotton shirts pulled up and over and off. Sharp snap of jeans yanked down. Soft rustle of them falling to the floor. Boxers bunched and twisted, they moved against each other, melding and fluid. Where before he could grab onto long wheat blond hair, Tom’s fingers slid over the silky bristles of darker root, the soft skin of tanned nape suddenly bare. Bunched shoulder muscles, long dip of spine, rising curve of lovely bottom, Tom’s hands explored and grabbed, kneaded and pulled, Chris’s moans rumbling at his ear.

They were hard, lengths shifting against each other, skin singing. It had been so long, they were on fire.

“Under,” Tom gasped, pointing to the side of the bed, “the mattress. Look there.”

Cheeks tinged pink, Chris did as he was told and stuck a hand under the mattress. He pulled it back holding a small tube of Vaseline. Tom’s face broke open with need, and he nodded.

“Use that.”

It was unclear if Chris could recall the times they’d had sex, but Tom knew and he would help him. They learned together, in every way, and they would learn it all again. Yanking his boxers down, Chris shook them to the floor, fingers hooking into the band of Tom’s own. Tom stared at Chris’s groin, hanging heavy and proud, and his mouth watered. But when Chris tore his boxers down, Tom slid with the motion, pulled flat on his back, thighs parted.

Drawn to his center, Chris’s eyes widened a fraction. His hand slipped down Tom’s knee and pushed it wider.

His gaze was adoration.

Scooting back, he lay down on his stomach and put his face an inch from Tom’s groin. Hands fluttering, Tom angled his head and watched him, hips tilted forward in offering. Chris leaned in and pressed his nose, mouth, chin to the root of Tom’s cock, in the dark hair, and inhaled. His eyes fell closed, his hand flexed wide on Tom’s hipbone. He tugged him impossibly closer.

The deep noise he made broke chills over all of Tom’s skin.

And then his eyes snapped open, the pupil ringed with blue.

“This,” he said, voice scratched. “I like this.”

He rose up to his knees over Tom with a focus that hinted slightly of wildness. Tom scrambled for the Vaseline, scooped some into his palm. He curled it around Chris’s cock and slathered it on. Reduced to speechlessness once more, Chris only flinched and jerked forward to lean on his arm, his other hand feeling the soft plane of Tom’s belly and chest, cupping his neck, palming his cheek. When Tom took more jelly and began to open himself, he paled considerably. His lip curled up only just enough to show the edge of teeth, and Tom whimpered, stuffing in another finger.

The bruise on Chris’s shoulder was stark against the white of his skin, a seeping wine stain radiating out from where the baseball had struck him. It would eventually fade to nothing but both would remember when it existed on him and why, both would handle it carefully from now on, both couldn’t imagine a time they would forget their pain.

Impatient and greedy, they grabbed at each other with slicked hands, mouths fusing, tongues pushing. Chris nudged at Tom’s entrance, begging, Tom smacked a palm to a rounded buttock and widened his legs.

The first push was immediate thirsty pain quenched by the pleasure of a stretch so full. Stars popped before Tom’s eyes, and he wiggled his hips. Chris growled and fisted his hair, not unkindly, full of possession. Gasping at the ceiling, Tom smiled at the pleasantly dull sting on his scalp as Chris pulled back and thrust back in. It had been too long, their bodies were brimming with need, shaking with all the pent up emotions and love they’d been forbidden to share. It poured out of them, deep kisses and rolling hips, frantic hands and scraping teeth. Tears filled their eyes and left wet tracks on their cheeks, salting their lips, and they moved and they moved.

Wrapped in their tight embrace, nothing would separate them. They knew nothing but themselves, felt nothing but their gasping breaths, the sweat beading on their skin, their loving murmurs and nose nuzzles.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Tom confessed in a voice quiet and devastated with hurt. Two tears spilled from his eyes. Chris brushed them away with his thumbs, cradling his head.

“No, Tom,” he whispered, planting soft kisses on his face. “I’m here still. I'm still me. The rest of me will come back to you.”

“I love you all the same, Chris,” Tom wept. “You’re here and mine and if you get all your memories back or not, that won’t change anything. We’ll make more, again and again.”

“Babe,” Chris breathed, face crumbling as he too wept.

The bed creaked beneath them, the sun dipped beyond the tree line, their tears blended as they touched cheeks. The friction of Chris's stomach and the stroking spark of something deep in Tom's core made him come, pleasure and happiness and overwhelming relief billowing through him as he moaned and clenched and shook. Dark eyes on him – devouring every detail, every flinch and lash flutter – Chris snapped his hips and came on a groan, burying his face in the soft pocket of Tom’s neck, safe and harbored, pulsing thickly, a prism spinning behind his eyes.

It was quiet in the dim light of his room, their breaths the only sound. Evening had fallen and shadows crept along the far wall, and their lips were soft and warm on each other. There was violence, and thunder, and the soft bend of lily necks in their gazes, a kaleidoscope of crushed lavender petals and barrel cactus blooms, a hundred millions stars to pick and choose for the unbreakable chain they weaved around each other. To be forever yours and mine, through winter cold and summer sweat, any sadness that might dare show its face, all the effervescent happiness welcomed any moment, any time.

They slept, as deeply as they’d ever before, and then they loved again, slower, deeper, marking their commitment and faithfulness in the other’s heart, a branding that would answer to anything and anyone.

Lying beneath him, sated and sticky and sore, Tom stroked Chris’s forehead and hummed a little tune. One he’d made up long ago, and had played around with on a dark-veined violin. And after another moment, cheek to Tom’s breastbone, Chris joined in softly, voice still crackly. But he knew the song.

He knew it.

Tom closed his swimming eyes and smiled.

**

_I used to think that pain was only physical. It was all I knew. Busted knuckles fielding ground balls. Twisted ankles landing on a rough patch of grass. Bruised thighs. Tight back muscles. Collisions at home plate._

_It wasn’t until my headaches that I knew something could get into you marrow deep, could spark a fire in the blood that beat through you, could level you right to your grave. I still have dreams about that day I blinked into nothingness, a red baseball cap and blond curls and two darting birds the last images in my mind. Tom snatched from my very head. Devastation doesn’t quite cut it. This diary has given me a way to snatch everything back. To demand he be returned to me, a ransom for my villainous, traitorous mind._

_It’s worked, I think. Things are still coming back to me, slow waves of lovely memories that inch into my subconscious and take deeper root. The smallest details are there, and I’ve managed to retain them. With him, I continue to create so many more, it’s like a castle I can live in and be reminded and believe. This is done and I want him to have it. I would never have known myself if not for that sweet boy, restorer of truths, valiant and free, an angel for me. He is braver than anyone I’ll ever know. And I love him with all that I possess, my heart, my bones, my breath. I’ll go where he goes. He steps and I follow. A river coursing through the paths of this life, no matter what the next bend may bring._

_No matter the hurricane, no matter the eclipse come round to blight us with darkness._

_You like that one, babe, blight? You read it to me in a book today. Right before I gobbled you up like Christmas ham, and your laughter echoed up through the trees._

_Now that’s a sound I’ll always remember._

_And I’m done with forgetting._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happiness, feels a lot like sorrow  
> Let it be, you can’t make it come or go  
> But you are gone - not for good but for now  
> And gone for now, feels a lot like gone for good
> 
> Happiness, is a firecracker sitting on my headboard  
> Happiness, was never meant to hold  
> Careful child, light the fuse and get away  
> ‘Cause happiness, throws a shower of sparks
> 
> Happiness, damn near destroys you  
> Breaks your faith to pieces on the floor  
> So you tell yourself, "That’s enough for now."  
> Happiness, has a violent roar.
> 
> ~The Fray, Happiness

School would start in a few weeks. The monsoons had finally died away, but the heat wouldn’t dissipate until the early weeks of October. Tom had scheduled his final shifts at the ice cream parlor, Chris his last appointment with his physician. His progress was steady and successful. No new growth had been detected in recent scans, and his memory and speech rehabilitation were positive signs of a full recovery. He stuttered sometimes, when he was excited or in a terrible hurry or very tired, but it was one more thing on the list of new traits that Tom found himself adoring.

His shoulder ached sometimes at dusk, but the bruise was only the faintest smear on his skin, his collarbone as long and strong as the other.

Their parents had given them money for clothes and school supplies, so they made a trip to the mall and spent the day trying on jeans and T-shirts and tennis shoes, buying packs of lined paper, pencils and pens, highlighters, folders, bubble gum pink erasers.

The next year would include college application essays and baseball tryouts, something Chris was confident he would succeed in.

“I’ve been tossing some balls around with Williams,” he told Tom at the food court, an arm around his shoulder as they ordered Korean barbecue. “I was lucky it wasn’t my throwing arm. I’ll start in the weight room first week of school, work on my conditioning on the side. I’ll be ready.”

In any case, neither was worried about going to separate schools.

“I go where you go,” Chris would say, a finality to his voice that helped Tom sleep at night.

Tom’s dad was on a date with Emilia one evening, Chris’s mother at a reading group, so the boys rented a horror movie and stayed in. Sprawled together on the couch in Chris’s living room, Tom flinched and shut his eyes at the scary parts, Chris squeezing him and smiling.

“I don’t particularly like this one,” Tom whispered after the seventh blood spray in ten minutes.

“Wanna go for a drive?” Chris offered, smelling Tom behind his ear. “I know a spot we could go to.”

“I know one too,” Tom said softly, turning his head and looking Chris in the eye.

“Maybe they’re the same place?”

Tom’s face softened. “Maybe.”

“Hey, can I show you something?”

There was a scream on screen that they ignored.

“Of course. What is it?”

Chris scrambled up, jostling Tom where he lay. “Come with me.”

They went upstairs to Chris’s room. Opening the drawers where he kept his socks, Chris pulled out a spiral bound notebook. He held it fondly for a moment and then presented it to Tom.

“What is this?” Tom said, taking it in his hands.

“I had been emailing Dr. Havens just after I came home from the hospital. I was insane with grief. We both were.” Tom nodded, remembering. “Anyway, he gave me some advice. He suggested I try journaling, see if anything jogged my memories. The first few entries were shit, lots of my confused thoughts. I tore those out. But things started coming back to me, and it just unfolded, over time, like a story. I wrote it down as best I could, as if I were experiencing it again for the first time. And that helped. This is it,” he said, tapping the notebook. “I want you to have it. To read it. It’s yours.”

Dumbfounded, Tom stared down at the notebook, flipped through its many pages, marveled at the scrawled print that was Chris’s handwriting, so very much of it. Tears swelled in his throat and he hugged the book to his chest.

“I’m…” he started, chin trembling. But Chris just took his hand.

“I know, babe,” he whispered. “I know. Come on. You owe me.”

“I do?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, the smile radiant in his crackly voice. “You promised me a snow cone.”

The memory hit Tom like a bag of bricks, their conversation at the dugout just before Chris’s last game, the day he had his seizure.

_“I’ll sneak you a snow cone during the seventh inning stretch.”_

_“Promise?”_

_“I promise.”_

Following behind him, notebook clutched in one arm, his hand held tightly by Chris, Tom smiled and basked in the warm glow he felt rising in his cheeks.

 

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO VERY MUCH for being such wonderful, engaging readers. This story took a long time to write, and I'm very grateful for your encouragement, support, and kindness. I hope you've enjoyed the boys' journey <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'll post the rest over the next several days. Thanks for reading!


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